


Pour Me One (For The Road)

by SimplyLucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Behind Closed Doors, Boxing, Boxing gym, Chance Meetings, Commitment, F/M, Fear of letting the chance pass one by, Flashbacks, Intimacy, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post Quiet Isle, Recovery, Romance, Sandor's POV, Unresolved Sexual Tension, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 97,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years after he last saw her, Sandor meets Sansa by accident in a hospital and they're forced to share some time together as the elevator they're in breaks down...</p>
<p>Silence stretched in the elevator car, giving him plenty of time to ponder what was going on and what could be the consequences. There were only two questions that mattered: did he want her back in his life? And if so, was she ready to welcome him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Underthenorthernlights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underthenorthernlights/gifts).



> All the characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> This fic is a gift for my dear friend, Underthenorthernlights (happy birthday, girl!). It was meant to be a one-shot, but as it turns out, there will be two more chapters. 
> 
> The title and some details of the story were inspired by the Arctic Monkeys' last album, AM.
> 
> Underthenorthernlights is my beta and I wanted this to be a surprise for her, so nobody edited this story. At your own risks... Feel free to correct my mistakes.

The automatic sliding glass door opened with a faint noise and he stepped in with a grunt, reluctant as always; in front of him, the entrance of Quiet Isle General Hospital buzzed with patients asking their way and busy nurses snaking in and out of small groups.

Sandor Clegane had never understood why people felt the urge to go to the hospital with their family; in his mind, one couldn't fight injuries or diseases by being surrounded by his relations, his kin. _The day you're ill or fucking wounded, you just fight alone against something you can't see. And you're on your own when facing death._ The presence of friends or family just made it worse. _Because leaving this fucking life is one thing but leaving behind the ones you loved rips up your heart. If you have a heart, that is to say._ Years ago, the mere notion of death appalled him; he saw illness and death as proofs that God didn't exist. His former self had disappeared however, and now he considered the prospect of his own death with indifference. Now and then with something akin to serenity.

“Please, my nephew is in pediatrics,” a woman in her forties told a nurse, her voice quavering. “Where can we find him?”

She had just come in, bringing in her wake a paunchy man and an old woman – her husband and her mother, most likely – and she stood beside him. Only the glossy foliage of a plastic plant separated them. The young, brown-haired nurse she was talking to had been stopped in her tracks and she blinked at the sun coming from outside through the glass facade, then stared at the woman for a second, before fully regaining her composure.

“Third floor, Ma'am. But please be careful, they've just repainted the hallway. The elevator is on your right.” With a smile, she turned around and walked away.

The family beside him headed to the elevator – the old woman doing her best to match her daughter and son-in-law's long strides – and Sandor followed suit. He didn't need to ask his way, after a long stay here – much longer than he first thought – and numerous medical consultations since the day he had left Quiet Isle. He even knew, inside out, the convalescent home hidden behind the large buildings of the hospital, for he had spent months out there. “Just a courtesy call,” the Elder Brother had chuckled, the last time they had met. “You need to come back here from time to time, so that I can have a look at your leg and see if everything is alright.”

Although it wasn't his real name but a moniker the surgeon had earned after long years in the department of orthopedics, Sandor couldn't think of the man who had performed surgery on his injured leg and who had probably saved his life without calling him 'Elder Brother'. As a matter of fact, Sandor always hesitated when he had to call the hospital, fearing a slip of the tongue and the medical secretary's reaction if he asked for an appointment with the Elder Brother.

The man had kept a close eye on him during Sandor's long recovery, eventually visiting him in the convalescent home and talking with him for hours, and for that, Sandor was grateful. There was already an old couple in the elevator when they all stepped in, Sandor ruing the slight limp that drew the couple's attention to his leg before their eyes went up and widened at the sight of his ruined face. _Screw you._

The panicked woman with her husband and mother pressed a button on the operating panel, then Sandor extended his hand to reach the one with a fluorescent number five ringed with blue. They were only six and the elevator car was rather large; Sandor nonetheless felt hemmed in. Such things often happened when he was in the elevator of Quiet Isle General Hospital, because he hated hospitals in the first place and also because the couple's insistent look was a reminder of his scars. On the evidence of the old couple's murmur, he could tell the woman already imagined he was a war veteran, coming back from Iraq or Afghanistan. _If only they knew the truth._

He clenched his teeth and let out a sigh of relief when the old couple moved past him to leave. _The second floor. Damn it._ A teenage girl who was a perfect example of Gothic fashion with her black lace dress, ridiculously long gloves and heavy make-up, came in and pressed the button of the first floor. _Oh no. Don't fucking tell me that-_

The elevator went down as Sandor half-opened his mouth to exhale his frustration. Squaring his shoulders and glaring at the teenage girl who avoided his eyes with great care and stared at her Gothic platform boots, his right hand tightened on the bag where he had put copies of the x-rays and a gift for the Elder Brother – a bottle of Scotch whisky. _Twelve years of age. He will like it, I'm sure, even if nine o'clock is a bit early to start drinking._ The Elder Brother would also lecture him about the abuse of alcohol, but they both knew Sandor had left behind his years of heavy drinker.

The artificial ding of the elevator warned them they were on the first floor and the Gothic girl left without a single look in their direction. He heard the woman who worried about her nephew talking to her mother in an undertone and he assumed they had finally noticed his burns.

That was one of the reasons why, after so many years, he loathed public space, especially elevators and waiting rooms: the people he knew and he worked with were accustomed to his burns. Those he cared for were able to be counted on the fingers of one hand – the Elder Brother being one of them – but at least they didn't pay much attention to his scars. Whenever he found himself in a crowd, there was always a moron who had to look hard at him, but most people didn't dare stare at him, impressed – and slightly frightened – by his uncommon build. It was much harder to avoid their stares in the confined space of the elevator car: they simply couldn't miss his burns.

Sandor was about to press the button again to get to the fifth floor faster when a gasp coming from the buzzing entrance hall drew his attention. A girl rushed in the elevator car just before the doors closed and she put her bag down with a chuckle of relief once the elevator went up. Sandor's heart skipped a beat; he knew that girl, despite the brownish dye that hid her natural color's hair. Absorbed by her thoughts and visibly satisfied now that she was inside the elevator car, she had not seen him. The quick rise and fall of her chest told him she had been running before and he thought she was, just like him, in a hurry for some appointment; at the same time, the rapid motions of her upper body reminded him how this girl's curves haunted his nights, years after he had last seen her. _Sansa Stark. The little bird._

Seven years after their last encounter – an event which details he badly wanted to forget, without much success so far – she had changed but what he cherished in her was still there. _Except that damned brown hair. Why did she dye her hair?_ Long eyelashes hid deep blue eyes as she kept looking at her crimson ballet flats; he recognized her high cheekbones, her full lips he craved to kiss. Her hair bun she had most likely done in a rush brought out the delicate line of her neck; her breasts seemed bigger than he remembered in the white blouse she wore – _but she was only fifteen when I last saw her._ Apart from this change he wouldn't complain, she had the same long legs than in his memories. _She used to prefer skirts,_ he mused, looking at her pair of skinny jeans.

All of a sudden, she raised her head and he realized his stare had been so heavy, so insistent she had finally noticed him, even if, because of the comings and goings of the other people, he was leaning back the wall of the elevator. The three who had asked their way to the pediatrics department were still between them when she first locked eyes with him and oddly enough, their presence comforted Sandor as much as it bothered him. A part of him wanted to be alone with her and to bombard her with questions; on the other hand, he dreaded the confrontation with a girl who had brought chaos to his life and whose curves were etched in his memory.

He had come to enjoy – eventually – the quiet life he now had. His enjoyed his job at the boxing gym, his small house at the edge of the town was enough for him and whenever he wanted to fuck someone, he knew where to go. He was free and nobody annoyed him. He didn't need some ghost from his past – so alluring as it might be – to question his new habits. He didn't need Sansa Stark.

They stared at each other for a long while, until the grand-mother gave them a suspicious look, before Sansa managed to say: “Good morning, Sandor.”

The three intruders – for that was exactly what those people had become at that moment – seemed surprised and the old lady slightly shook her head in disapproval.

“'Morning,” he finally replied, gruff as ever.

If he had now and then imagined their reunion, when sleeplessness gave him plenty of time to turn things over in his head, their first exchange was always warmer and less awkward. _Fuck me! I'm a grown man and I'm still speechless when I'm before her._ The unpleasant ding echoed in the elevator car and the doors soon opened to free the three passengers who had witnessed their encounter with a furrowed brow. Sansa stepped aside so that they could leave and she leaned back against the metallic wall, mirroring his attitude. The doors slowly closed and suddenly they were face to face.

“Where- where are you going to?” he growled, his fingers hovering over the luminescent figures. The notion he was closer to the elevator buttons somewhat satisfied him, like a derisory proof that he was in control of something, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

“Fifth floor,” she replied curtly.

He pressed the button again and the elevator went up. _At last._ Her back stiffened and she tilted her head back until it rested against the wall; she stared at him, her big blue eyes shining. Sandor wondered if she was just astonished by his presence in this place or if she was cursing at him. _Because, let's face it, I was a part of all that happened to her at that time. When Joffrey beat her, I stood there and I watched. Holding her stare became harder with each passing second. I'll never forgive myself for what I did... or what I didn't do. I don't expect her to forgive me either._

“What are you doing here?” Her tone had nothing to do with the demure, polite girl he had known, years before: there was something bitter in her voice. Uncomfortable, he glanced at his feet before locking eyes with her again. _She's on her back foot. She looks like she had been hunted down. Her brown hair... Is this why she dyed it? Because someone's after her?_

“Visiting someone,” he replied, evasive.

For some reason, he didn't want her to know about his gimpy leg. The moment she would understand he had been shot and was now weakened, would feel like someone was reopening his wound. He just wished she could ignore his limp.

“I didn't picture you visiting patients,” she commented.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, yet nobody stepped in; it often happened here and Sandor guessed someone had lost patience while waiting for the elevator and had decided to take the stairs instead. Trying to hide his discomfiture but failing miserably, he pressed the button a bit too forcefully. The elevator's doors closed and reopened at once, then he pressed the button again, irritated and eager to leave the girl who blamed him for her misfortunes, if her previous remark was any indication.

When the doors closed for good this time, he let out a deep sigh and avoided her gaze. The irksome ding echoed inside the car, rousing a sensation he thought he had forgotten. _Uncontrollable anger. Need to crush something._ The girl didn't only bring back bad memories: habits he believed gone forever and his old reflexes returned in her wake. His jaw tense, he tried to focus on the idea he would soon get upstairs and walk away. _I'll limp away,_ he told himself sourly, imagining the disgust on her face, when she'd watch him leave.

The elevator stopped again, the doors didn't open. A quick glance at the position indicator, right behind him, made him frown: numbers four and five blinked on the screen, as if they were stuck between two floors.

“What's wrong?” she asked suddenly. Nervously, she took her purse – a red little thing matching the color of her shoes – and she clutched to the strap before taking a step forward.

“Don't know,” he mumbled, pressing again the button with a luminescent number five ringed with blue.

“You shouldn't do that. The more you press the button-”

He turned to her so briskly she stopped short of saying more. Her blue eyes widened in apprehension and that was how he understood he had been glaring at her. _You're a brute. You keep drumming in you've changed, but you didn't. You still frighten her._ “Very well,” he said coldly. “If you want to give a try...” A cruel smile plastered on his lips, he gestured at the operating panel. “Be my guest.”

Hesitating, she took one more step; Sandor moved aside so that she could access the control buttons and he watched her slender fingers hovering over them. The elevator car still didn't move. Sansa gave him a quizzical look before carefully pressing the button with a number five on it. _Of course. You think you'll do better than me by being patient and treating everything with the utmost respect._ She pressed the button again, but nothing happened and Sandor repressed a chuckle. Defeated, she chewed her lip thus reminding Sandor of how badly he wanted to kiss her whenever she did this, when she was fifteen. When she chewed her lip, she became again the young, fragile girl he had watched wither away without lifting his little finger.

“What's going on?” she asked. “Is the elevator car stuck?”

He snorted. “I guess it is.” He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket then he shook her head vehemently. “Shit! It's useless. Cell phones don't fucking work in the hospital. Policy.”

Avoiding his gaze, she exhaled a deep sigh. After a while, she stared at the operating panel again and she pressed the button showing a bell. “It's how we ask for help, right?” she muttered. It was less a question than an attempt to reassure herself. _Maybe she didn't change that much._ Sandor nodded, put his bag down on the car floor and folded his arms.

They heard interference, then a nasal voice broke the silence inside the elevator car. “Regent elevators, what can I do for you?”

“We- The elevator we're in just stopped,” she explained, visibly relieved to hear someone else's voice. “We're in Quiet Isle General Hospital. It seems that we're stuck between two different floors.”

“Can you give me the number of the elevator, Miss?” the nasal voice went on. “It's written near the position indicator, on the left.” Sansa complied obediently. “When did you say the elevator stopped?”

“A few minutes ago. How long does it take to send someone here?”

They heard the man shuffling papers. “Well, I don't know... Quiet Isle is forty miles from our nearest office, so I'd say... one hour at the very least. Are you alone in there, Miss?”

“No, I'm not.” There was something akin to exasperation in her voice: Sandor snorted.

“Grin and bear it, then!” the man replied.

Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, as a heavy silence filled the elevator car. “This is all I need,” she finally mumbled.

Sandor shook his head slowly, surprised to see how the little bird had grown talons during the last few years. “Say it, girl. It couldn't be worse. Stuck with me in this fucking elevator.” Anger laced his words with bitterness and he suddenly wondered what had happened to the taciturn yet serene man he had become.

Leaning against the handrail, Sansa looked up at him with horror. “I'm going to be late!” she explained. “Your- presence here has nothing to do with my-” She looked for words. “My annoyance.”

“Spare me.”

Visibly hurt by his disbelief, she sat down on the car floor, clutching to her purse. Sandor began to feel the familiar ache in his thigh; it was something he was accustomed to since he had got injured, six years ago. _I shouldn't stand like this for a long time._ He clenched his teeth. Only the notion she would inevitably notice his stiff leg the moment he would lower himself prevented him from sitting down. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to find a less uncomfortable position.

“You won't sit down?” she asked. _She had always been more observant than most people thought._

“I'm fine,” he rasped, braggart despite the pain. Her eyes narrowed slightly, suggesting she didn't believe him. “I already bother you by just being here, I don't want to force you to look at my ugly face.”

From where he stood, she looked tiny and vulnerable. “Oh, come on! What did you expect me to do? You thought I would fly into your arms? Did you forget the night I last saw you?”

 _Here we are._ His drunkenness and his bad manners, that was all the girl remembered and when something reminded her of the Hound – by accident – she probably thought of this smell of booze and those innuendos that were his trademark at the time. _I guess I asked for it._

“You said 'good morning',” he observed, trying not to wince in pain lest she understood he wasn't there to visit a patient. “I expected you to do that. Always the proper little lady.”

Sansa gasped in shock. She now had that 'Why-are-you-so rude' look he found both unbearable and enticing. He let his eyes roam over her, just to see if she was going to blush – like she usually did when she was a teenager – or to protest. _She's got backbone, now._ He died to know what had changed her yet he refused to ask the question, fearing the answer would made him feel terribly old and lonely. _Her perfect lips, her throat, her breasts..._ Under the white, loose shirt she wore that morning, they looked bigger than in his memories, he was sure about that, and he had trouble chasing away the visions of Sansa that still haunted his nights.

 _She must be married._ Rumors had it that she had married the Imp but it was a long time ago. Girls like her didn't stay with runts like the Imp – nor with monsters like him. _She's twenty-three,_ he told himself. _She probably got divorced and she married someone else. She-_

Frowning, he tried to remember what was written on the sign of the fifth floor. _Orthopedics..._ that was on his right, when he left the elevator car. On the left... He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and he remembered what was written below. _Gynecology. Obstetrics. Consultations. She's pregnant._ His heart skipped a beat. _She's pregnant. That's why she's going to the fifth floor._

Sandor had never suspected the notion his little bird bore someone else's child could hurt so badly. _Hence the loose shirt to hide her stomach. She's got an appointment with some fucking obstetrician. It explains what she says about being late._ He felt like his legs were going to give out and he lowered himself to the floor, careless of her reaction.

Imagining the swell of her belly under the blouse was like rubbing salt into the wound. _She's pregnant. I don't have any right to complain, she's not my plaything. She never was. She certainly deserves to be happy._ All those words that would normally soothe him filled his mind with their lulling wisdom, yet they seemed useless. No matter how time had flied, no matter the changes he had experienced, the realization she was pregnant stung, and his hands began to shake.

“Sandor, what happened to your leg?”

As if it wasn't enough, she had noticed. From now on, she would never see him again as the strong, fearless man she had once met.

“Got shot at.”

 _Always stingy with words,_ the Elder Brother would have commented with a smirk.

“When?” she now sounded concerned. “What happened?”

He shrugged, tilting his head against the metallic wall of the elevator car. “Six years ago. A shootout, when I was on the lame.” Sansa's eyes encouraged him to go on, so he did. “I was banged up when I arrived here. A surgeon took care of me and here I am, limping along.”

 _Quite a tirade, right?_ Sandor easily imagined the Elder Brother taunting him. The first times the two men had met in the convalescent home, it had mostly been the surgeon talking. Sandor needed time to trust the man and to share his memories with him. _But the Elder Brother isn't Sansa Stark. It had always been easier with her. Talking was easier but being honest was more difficult, I guess. I always sounded more rude than I intended._ Wincing, he crossed his long legs so that the wounded one rested on the floor. His foot brushed Sansa's, who was sitting cross-legged.

“So it's an appointment with your surgeon?” she said.

He nodded, then mindlessly combed his dark hair so that it concealed a part of his burns. An old reflex that came back, once in front of her. _This is so stupid. As if she cared about me now that-_ The words were stuck in his throat. He imagined her lifting the blouse so that an unknown man could look at her swollen belly and touch her smooth skin. He imagined her grin as two male hands caressed her stomach and the acid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. _I don't want to know anything else. If she tells me the details of her fucking wedding day or asks me what color is best for a nursery, I swear I'm going to puke._

“You live nearby?” she asked again.

The chirping of the little bird – or rather her inability to stay silent when she was nervous – forced a wan smile out of him. He nodded.

“And- what do you do for a living?”

She had met a tough guy, a henchman who worked for the Lannisters and he had previously mentioned he had been on the run: in all likelihood, imagining he could have given up his former illegal activities was difficult for her. Brow knitted, she waited for his answer.

“I manage a boxing gym. I'm my own boss, now.” He squared his shoulders and peeked at her, curious to see her reaction. He didn't think 'own' was a jaw-dropping word, yet the girl was speechless. “Alright, I didn't exactly buy it. It's Barristan Selmy's, but as he's too old to keep training kids and ruling the place... Besides, he has no children. So I manage it and it'll be mine someday.”

Oddly enough, he felt proud to tell her he was his own boss and he would eventually own a small business when Barristan Selmy would go west. The boxing gym was an old one, crowded with boys who looked like youthful offenders more than athletes, but nobody commanded him out there. “I think I have a business card, somewhere...” he trailed off, retrieving his billfold from the back pocket of his jeans and holding it out to her on an impulse. “Some girls train at the gym, you know... But I guess in your condition...”

Sansa's eyes widened. “In my condition?” she repeated. Sandor briefly smiled and gestured at her middle, invisible under the loose shirt. Her eyes followed his stare then she looked up at him, brow furrowed. “In my condition?” Her hands rested on her knees and Sandor immediately noticed the absence of wedding ring. _Does it mean I was wrong?_

“What- What did you imagine, Sandor? You thought- you thought I was pregnant?” A deep blush tinted her cheeks, forehead and throat as he mentally palm-faced. “What made you think I was pregnant?” she insisted.

 _Oh no. She thinks I find her fat or something._ Could he tell her why he had imagined she was carrying a child?

“You're perfect the way you are,” he said, before she could react. “Slender and pretty and everything. I thought you were pregnant because you're going to the fifth floor. Orthopedics, gynecology, obstetrics,” he recited.

“Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.” The little bird was all flustered and he would be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy the situation. Unease had given place to amusement.

“Besides...” A devilish grin pulled the corners of his lips. “Your breasts are bigger than I remembered. Women have bigger tits when they're pregnant and-”

“No need to go on, I got your point,” she cut him off angrily, crossing her arms about her chest in a self-protective gesture.

She clearly wished to make herself inconspicuous, yet in the confined space where they were stuck, she would have to bear his gaze on her until someone fixed the elevator. Sandor kept observing her, relishing her embarrassment. Beyond the the strange relief he experienced now that he knew she wasn't pregnant, there was something he couldn't quite place, something that budded inside him, making him feel awkward and very strong at the same time. He thought he had lost this sensation forever and all of a sudden, the last years spent between the hospital, the boxing gym and the quiet little house he lived in, seemed dull in comparison. _That's what I feel when I'm with her. She makes me feel alive._

“You still loathe my bad manners, girl.” In order to narrow the space between them, he leaned forward, smiling and forgetting about the pain in his leg.

“You've changed, though,” she stated timidly and he could only nod at this.

“But you still hate my bad manners, don't you?”

“I don't know.”

Silence stretched in the elevator car, giving him plenty of time to ponder what was going on and what could be the consequences. There were only two questions that mattered: did he want her back in his life? And if so, was she ready to welcome him?

A quick glance at her reddened cheeks confirmed what he feared and anticipated at the same time. Sansa Stark was like hard liquor for a former alcoholic: a sip was enough to get intoxicated and to relapse. Meeting her in this place, years after he left her during that dreadful night, destroyed his efforts to forget her. _Not that I truly wanted to forget about a girl like her._ Her shyness, her blue gaze half-hidden under long eyelashes were his gin, his whiskey. They set his pulse racing and they made every sensation more intense.

Sandor licked his lips. “So why are you here?” he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. He regretted his question instantly. “I'm a fucking moron. I shouldn't ask, you don't owe me an explanation.”

“It's alright,” she replied, smiling, hands folded in her lap. “I work here. Yesterday was my first day, that's why I didn't want to arrive late this morning. I guess we only have to wait now and I hope they won't be mad at me...”

Sandor shook his head reassuringly. “I'm sure they won't. Do you work in obstetrics?”

Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips formed a little 'O'. “What's the matter with obstetrics? I work in orthopedics, as a nurse. There was a time when I thought I could become a surgeon or something, but I guess being a nurse isn't that bad for a girl whose school years have been a bit... complicated.”

 _How did she manage to study with all the shit that happened?_ Though the girl didn't say much about her past so far, she made him feel like the last few years had been rough on her. _How could it be otherwise between the Lannisters and Baelish? What happened to him, by the way?_ As far as he knew, the Lannisters had lost their influence, now that Joffrey, Tywin and Kevan were dead. Besides, with Cersei in jail, the golden family's depravity had been revealed to the world. Petyr Baelish's fate remained more mysterious.

“What- what happened after I... left?” he asked. _After I deserted, after I abandoned you._

Eyes downcast, Sansa watched the floor covering. A tiny smile pulled the corners of her lips and disappeared quickly. “It's a long story, Sandor.”

He shrugged. “It looks as if we have plenty of time, girl.”

Sandor saw her swallowing painfully; as her unease was tangible, he shifted and sat beside her, so that she wouldn't feel his stare directed at her. The little bird still hesitated, wringing her hands nervously, but in the end, she began to talk about the aftermath of the confrontation between the Lannisters and Stannis Baratheon. Words didn't come easily; there were silences between her revelations about her last months with the Lannisters.

Joffrey was supposed to marry Sansa when she was old enough, but he had changed his mind and got engaged to a Tyrell girl instead. After that, Sansa had been married to the Imp, then she had escaped with Littlefinger after Joffrey's death. With Baelish, things didn't get any better; in veiled terms, she told Sandor the man wanted her for himself. He had married her to another man, though, a guy she called Harry. One day, she had found the strength to escape their stylish villa and she had lived on her own.

“My father's friends helped me,” she added, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “I was lucky enough to find them and they protected me ever since. Jon Umber even paid my tuition fees, when I told him I wanted to become a nurse.”

There was gratefulness in her tone, yet it stung: she would never feel that gratefulness towards him since he had done nothing to deserve it, leaving her alone in the lion's den.

“So you went back North?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, but as much as I love the North, I feel like it's time for me to move on and to stand on my own two feet. Finding a job here, rather far from the North was a good opportunity. I took it as the sign I had to leave things behind.”

“I can't believe you live here.” He was thinking out loud and he instantly wished he could take back his words, for the enthusiasm they conveyed could only scare the girl away.

“I don't live here yet. I took a room in a motel and I finally found a small apartment by the lake. I'll move next weekend. Quite an adventure but I'm very excited.”

“Need some help, to make your move?”

Unbidden, his words surprised him as much as they surprised her. She swiveled her head, looking up at him. There was this lock of hair he wanted to tuck behind her ear; he couldn't help staring at it, thinking all he had to do was extend his hand and gently replace it. _Since when have we been so close?_ The answer was quite obvious: since he had sneaked in her bedroom at the Lannisters' and waited for her in the dark before scaring the crap out of her. _I was a brute and a fool. I spoiled everything. She'll never understand I've changed._

“Forget it. Forget what I've said-” he spat.

A tiny hand landed on his forearm, making him gasp. “No, no, you don't get it, Sandor. It's just that I'm surprised and- I didn't expect you to offer your help. Besides, with your leg-”

“You think I'm disabled? I'm not a cripple!” He sounded like an angry child, now. _Better and better._ “I can't run the fucking one hundred meters, but I'm in better shape than most men you know.”

“Of course, you're not a cripple! Tell me you know I didn't mean it,” she nearly begged him, tightening her grip on him.

Maybe he was just taking his dreams for reality, but the little bird gave him a long look and he wondered if she wasn't ogling the old, lonely man he felt he was. Once more, an old reflex came back and he squared his shoulders: even if it was an illusion in all likelihood, it was good to be observed by Sansa Stark.

"I don't know, girl.” _You're a bastard. She didn't mean it and you're torturing her._ “Alright. I guess you didn't mean it,” he sighed.

There was a silence, then her voice surprised him by the bashfulness it exuded. “I'd be very happy if you came and helped me next Saturday. I don't know anyone here. Basically, it was what I wanted, but... it's good to know there's someone in this town I can rely on.”

Pathetic as ever, he mumbled it was nothing and she frowned so deeply at that he wondered if she had understood his words. _She says she can rely on me. Can't be true..._ Before he convinced himself he was harboring illusions, she shifted and her bare shoulder brushed his. They were sitting side by side, the little bird chirping and him nodding silently, although he didn't pay much attention to what she said; he focused on the contact of her arm against his, experiencing a sensation he never had before and he didn't think he deserved it. Her pale, smooth skin was silky yes, but sometimes it was covered with goosebumps tickling his own skin. He told himself it was a minor detail, something so ordinary he was a fool to focus on it, yet the touch of her skin and the warmth emanating from the little bird seemed to ignite a fire extinguished long ago.

The embers weren't completely cold, he guessed, for a mere contact had relighted them. Looking up at the CCTV camera, he asked himself if whoever was watching them could see how embarrassed he was. And how intoxicated. He was intoxicated by her contact, her smell, her sight.

All too soon, a voice coming from outside the elevator's shaft interrupted Sansa: the repairman was there. From that moment on, he did his best to regain his composure and the little bird went silent. At some point, he realized she was biting her lip again and he read it as a tell-tale sign of anxiousness.

He nudged her. “What's going on? A few more minutes and you'll be free to go. No more face to face with an old dog.”

“Don't talk like that... I never understood why you let Joffrey call you 'Dog'.”

“What's going on?” he insisted, locking eyes with her.

“I'm afraid the people I work with won't believe my story. I mean... I was already in a hurry when I took this elevator.”

Sandor shrugged. “Do you know the Elder Brother?”

“You mean Doctor Knight? The head doctor? I didn't meet him yet, but I'm afraid-”

“I know the Elder Brother,” he cut her off. “He performed surgery on me and as I spent more time here than I thought, he became a friend of mine.”

She was impressed, on the evidence of her gasp of surprise and her hesitating smile. “Could you... Do you think you could ask him not to... banish me or something?” She was chuckling a bit nervously, but behind her smiles, her apprehension was palpable. “This job is very important for me, Sandor.” Her expression at that moment, as she bit her bottom lip and furrowed her brow, waiting for his answer, mesmerized him. The grating noise of metal roused himself from his thoughts.

“Guess I can do that for you,” he rasped.

When the elevator finally went up, she was beaming at him; surprised by the sudden upward movement of the elevator, Sansa lost her balance and he needed to catch hold of her. Although his hand hardly lingered on her shoulder, he noticed the deep blush tinting her cheeks. On the position indicator, the number five shone and the elevator stopped, breaking the spell. The very moment before the doors opened, while Sansa collected her things and got on her feet, Sandor could have sworn she was sighing and not with relief. Leaning on the handrail, he pushed himself from the floor, under her watchful gaze. As he raised to his full height, she probably didn't notice the half-smile his long dark hair hid.

“I can't believe the Elder Brother is your friend,” she muttered thoughtfully, forcing a chuckle out of him.

They stepped out of the elevator, looking for the repairman who had seemingly vanished; around them, people came and went, some, wearing scrubs, hurrying in the hallway and other walking at a slow pace. By an unspoken consent, they stopped by the sign indicating the orthopedics and they stared silently at each other. Once in the orthopedics department, they would be a patient and a nurse again. She would focus on this new job that seemed so precious for her and Sandor would walk to the Elder Brother's office. He wouldn't be very attentive this morning and he guessed the Elder Brother would have to ask the same question twice before he gave the man a correct answer.

“Well, Sansa,” he said, shrugging. “This is it.”

Again, she bit her lip and he wished he could kiss her on the spot. On his right, he spotted their reflection in the glass facade; the rather tall, slender little bird looking so fragile in front of his hulking frame. _Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. We've both lost and gained things during these years. We're different and yet-_

“Were you serious when you said you would help me moving my things here?” she asked all a sudden.

“Of course, I was.” Uncomfortable, he shoved one hand in his pocket while the other one clutched to the handle of his bag.

“I'm going to give you my number. Have you got some paper please?”

Too embarrassed to utter a proper response, he looked for a piece of paper in his bag and only found the paper envelope containing his x-rays. Sheepish, he retrieved it from his bag and handed it out to her. She smiled, then wrote down her phone number on it before giving it back to him with a pen, so that he could write his. In the end, she tore down the part where Sandor had scribbled his number and placed it in her purse. _Always well-organized._

Sansa said she would call to give him the details about next Saturday then he suggested he could walk her to the Elder Brother's office: she didn't dare refuse his help. As they headed to his friend's office, at the other end of the hallway, Sandor felt strange. No matter how hard he tried to keep a straight face, something inside him wanted to explode and to gloat. Unintendedly, his mouth curved in a twisted smile, while he felt a knot in his stomach. For once, he rued the Elder Brother's judgment, understanding his unusual behavior wouldn't go unnoticed.

 _He's going to see I'm bloody nervous._ That, and something else he couldn't quite place, especially when Sansa's arm brushed his by accident, as they walked side by side, the girl adjusting her pace to his slight limp. _Fuck it! He'll notice that I'm...happy._


	2. Episode 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sandor had failed to quit smoking, Sansa had kept what Cersei used to call a bad habit: her tendency to bite her bottom lip had not disappeared, and it only increased his desire. The more he craved to kiss her, the more he dragged on his cigarette. He realized smoking was just a pathetic attempt to stave off his need for her lips; that notion was disturbing enough for him to avert his eyes and to slightly turn so that she couldn’t see his turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I couldn't post this chapter earlier. As usual, the fantastic Underthenorthernlights beta read it.
> 
> This story will be longer than I thought at first - perhaps 10 chapters? The rating changed as well. There will be less angst than in my other stories and no violence. It's focused on Sandor's thoughts, his doubts and his fear of letting the chance pass him by, with lighter moments. In any case, I hope you'll enjoy it and I'll be glad to receive feedback.

After splashing water on his face, Sandor stood up straight and gave a disillusioned look at his reflection in the mirror. Behind the dark curtain of thin hair dripping in the sink, his asymmetric features were the same. One side gaunt and unwelcoming, the other one burnt. He smirked at the disfigured man in the mirror, then wiped away the shaving foam that remained on his cheekbone.

Sighing, he rested his palms on the sides of the sink and he leaned forward to scrutinize his reflection. On his good side, the lack of sleep due to what he didn’t dare call nervousness had left marks, tracing thin lines at the corner of his eyes. On the temple, he could see some gray hair. _Stop it, you’re being an asshole. This is not a beauty contest, you’re going there to help her, nothing more._ Yet he knew he would have to bear the way other people look at him, and Sansa would be there, watching their reaction to his unexpected presence, possibly taking in their disgust.

For some reason, he suspected the others didn’t know he would come and he dreaded the moment they would finally see him. Seven years later, he guessed they still associated his name with the Lannisters and their deeds. These people remained Eddard Stark’s loyal friends and they lumped together all the persons who had wronged the Stark family; Sandor doubted the Northerners were able to see the difference between a sleazebag like Joffrey and those who had obeyed Joffrey’s orders, like himself. _They don’t want to make a fucking distinction,_ he mused bitterly, _and they’re probably right: what’s the difference between the bastard who commanded and the shithead who beat the girl?_

His jaw tense, he squeezed his eyes shut, spun on his heels and turned off the radio blaring on top of the washing machine, behind him. The fact he had never laid a hand on her but only watched as Meryn Trant slapped her didn’t change anything: the persistent guilt would never vanish. _It’s too late, now._ He had promised he would come to help her move and now that the little bird was going to work and to live there, in the same town where he ruled a boxing gym, he couldn’t just stood her up because he was afraid of a bunch of Northerners, could he?

Running his hand on his still wet face, he turned to the mirror again, exhaled a deep sigh and tentatively combed his hair, so that it partly covered his scars. Then, after replacing the comb, the three-blade razor and the shaving foam inside the bathroom cupboard, he stretched his limbs, slightly arching his back in the process. When the towel around his hips fell to the tiled floor, he didn’t pick it up and he finally walked back to the bedroom bare-naked.

Sandor caught a glimpse at his reflection in the window panel - he usually didn’t feel the need to close the blinds, as the bedroom looked towards the woods, preferring the pale light of dawn to wake him up to any alarm clock. He was in good shape, thanks to the exercise bench and the weights he lifted daily: the rippling muscles of his torso and arms proved it. Further down, below the dark area of his groin, the legs didn’t look that bad, for a man who had suffered a bullet wound and its consequences. In the blurred image the window panel reflected, the scars on his thigh were barely visible, but the legs seemed strong and muscled.

 _And all these efforts, what for?_ He had often wondered why he forced himself to do all this, while lying on the exercise bench, lifting the dumbbell until a glow of sweat covered his limbs. He wondered why he did it, yet he went on, calling himself a moron because it wouldn’t be of any use now that his life had changed so drastically.

The day Sansa had showed up in the elevator, he had told himself that, perhaps exercising wasn’t a waste of his time, that he had done something that would finally make sense. Now he didn’t know anymore. With impatience, he went to the closet, picked boxer shorts, a pair of jeans and a checkered shirt. He couldn’t make her wait, especially that day.

The morning sun was pale, outside, casting a wan light on the oak grove and the bush nearby. From his window, the landscape exuded something akin to serenity - it was one of the reasons why he had chosen this small house among dozens of others he had visited - yet this calmness failed to rub off on him that morning. After he opened the window and let the breeze cool the warmth on his face, he felt as if he was about to leap into the unknown. _Basically, that’s exactly what it is._

Leaving his bedroom, he went to the kitchen and prepared some coffee. _I don’t even have a proper coffee pot,_ he mused, putting two teaspoons of instant coffee in a mug, then pouring hot water on it. He stirred the mixture until an imperceptible cream-colored foam formed at the surface of the dark brown liquid.

Since he had met Sansa again, these kind of thoughts popped up in his mind and he called himself stupid and wondered what was suddenly wrong with the lack of a proper coffeepot. Unbeknownst to him, she had changed the way he considered his existence, and he now saw everything in a new light: some aspects of his life, like the boxing gym, were achievements he could be proud of and they had gained in value because Sansa Stark prized them. Some others didn’t bother him so far - the Spartan equipment of his house, for instance - but he now questioned his choices and feared her reaction, should she visit him someday.

Drinking coffee - piping hot and tasteless - didn’t soothe his nerves. In the foolish dreams he had had the past few days, Sansa inevitably knocked at his door and came in. These dreams were only dreams and senseless ones, to say the least, he kept repeating this to himself, but what if she visited him for real and found nothing else to drink than beer and instant coffee? For the first time, material concerns like tableware, the contents of his fridge or the clothes he wore began to worry him.

The Elder Brother had seen the change in him instantly, the other day, Sandor acknowledged it as he wiped the corners of his mouth, leaning his elbows against the table. He remembered the surgeon’s amused look when he had come in his office, Sansa on his heels. The man was too polite to make any comment, but the notion his former patient and the new recruit of the orthopedic department knew each other forced a smile out of him. _Or was it my pathetic look when she left?_ In any case, the Elder Brother had behaved as if nothing had happened, before telling Sandor he really needed a break and suggesting they took a beer somewhere in town that evening.

It was only then, as the sun went down and set fire to the horizon, casting a red light on the riverbank, that the Elder Brother had begun to question him.

“So she’s back in your life?” he had asked Sandor. They were sitting outside the bar; only the street separated them from the riverbank and instead of holding the Elder Brother’s stare, it was easier for Sandor to pretend he was mesmerized by the golden liquid in his pint glass.

“Dunno. We met again, that’s all.”

As he perfected his sulky attitude, round-shouldered and playing with the cardboard coaster, the Elder Brother kept staring at him. “So... you’re free on Saturday?” he said innocently.

“No, I’m not. Why?” This time, Sandor raised his eyes and gazed at the bald, middle-aged man sitting opposite to him.

“What do you plan to do next Saturday, then?” the surgeon went on.

“Is it a fucking police interrogation? I thought we were done with this shit,” he growled.

Seated right up against the back of his chair so far, the Elder Brother leaned forward, grinning. “You used to do a better job at hiding your embarrassment behind feigned anger, before...”

Sandor cursed in an undertone and took a sip of beer. “The girl is supposed to move to a new place. I will help her, period.”

“So seven years later, you meet again a girl, who would never forgive you for what you’ve done, according to you… You two spend half-an-hour talking, she asks your help to move, you say yes… and she’s not back in your life?” The Elder Brother’s incredulous smile was unpleasant, to put it mildly.

“How did you know it’s on Saturday?” Sandor rasped, trying to ignore his friend’s sarcasm.

“Easy. Before leaving, she said she would give you a call ‘to sort out the details about Saturday morning.’ You nodded eagerly at that.”

A gulp of beer wasn’t enough to disguise his awkwardness. “So I can’t help a friend without having you misinterpreting my actions?” Sandor replied, bending forward and leaning his elbows on the small wooden table.

“Oh, come on. You know better than to bury your head in the sand, don’t you? Is she a _friend_ , Sandor? What do you intend to do about this girl?”

Sandor was at a loss. To put up a front, he retrieved his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans and he took one, then he nervously looked for his lighter and lit the cigarette with difficulty. He was trying to quit, hadn’t smoke in a while, but this was too much for him. Besides, he knew the Elder Brother disapproved and he couldn’t shake off the feeling he was doing something transgressive, something that infuriated the doctor. The first drag was a relief, the second one - a long, exaggerated drag - was even better.

Smiling rather wickedly at the Elder Brother, Sandor jabbed a finger at his face. “You know you sound like her fucking father now?”

Across the table, the surgeon pinched the bridge of his veined, red nose between his thumb and his forefinger, then he smiled back: “Funny how you overreact when it comes to her… Did you spend the day playing the conversation you had with her back in your mind? Oh, and stop scratching your tattoo, please.”

Sandor looked down and froze; without him noticing, he was scratching a spot on his chest, through the thin fabric of his shirt. Settling back in his seat and folding his arms, he sighed deeply. The Elder Brother had a talent for diagnosing his patients; sometimes Sandor believed the man used his skills outside the hospital, to diagnose what was wrong with the people he met. More than once, during one of their conversations, he had felt like the Elder Brother observed him like a friend, but also like a patient, trying to detect symptoms of his uneasiness. _What kind of symptoms is he trying to discover, tonight?_

Later, after they parted, Sandor walked back to his old pick-up truck, hands shoved in his pockets. What were his intentions? Where would all this lead him? Things were going too fast, he told himself as images churned in his head. He already had his keys in hand when he spun on his heels and called the Elder Brother; the man was sitting in his dark gray sedan, ready to turn on the ignition. Sandor almost ran towards him despite his limp, thus drawing the Elder Brother’s attention on his leg. Frowning with concern, the surgeon got out of the car.

“What if she has a boyfriend?” Sandor heard himself ask.

The Elder Brother didn’t expect that question, for his eyes widened like saucers. It took him some time to finally answer: “In this case, you’ll do what you already did once. You’ll stay in the background, observing, making sure she’s OK.”

“I didn’t make sure she was OK,” Sandor retorted, feeling like his voice was breaking. “I just... walked away.”

There was a silence. At nightfall, the Elder Brother’s expression was unreadable and the street lamps were too far to light his square face. In the end, his response came like a whisper. “You were unable to take care of anyone back then. Now you could watch over her if necessary. If she- If Sansa has someone in her life, I know you’ll… step back. Because there’s one thing we know for sure, you and I: you want this girl to be happy. In this case, if things don’t turn like you expect them to, I’ll be there.”

And that was all; the Elder Brother didn’t wait for his reaction and he got in his car, before going into reverse and leaving Sandor alone in the parking lot, with his interrogations and his doubts. Looking defeated as the lights of the Elder Brother’s car disappeared at the corner of the street, he admitted the man was right: he had spent the day playing the conversation back in his mind, wondering why he had not found the strength to ask her more about her past. _Pathetic._

Four days later, in the silence the outdated kitchen of his small house offered, Sandor still mulled over the Elder Brother’s advice, wondering if he was able to step back, in case Sansa Stark had met someone. Looking back, he loathed the short-tempered, violent man he once was; the notion his older self could come back any day, if only something big happened, like a disillusion - he didn’t dare think a romantic disappointment - scared him. He now had a quiet - if not happy - life: he didn’t want to lose the little calmness he had found.

He knew it; despite her charming appearance, Sansa Stark was a storm. She had brought chaos in his life, playing havoc with his habits and his values, questioning his loyalty towards the Lannisters. There had been two brutal changes in his life so far: his father’s death when he was a kid, leading him to seek the Lannisters’ protection, and his leaving on an impulse, seven years before. It wasn’t a coincidence if he had left the Lannisters’ service after he had met her. If his brother Gregor had caused their father’s untimely end, thus forcing him to leave home, Sansa’s influence had been as decisive the day he had given up his job as the Lannisters’ enforcer, even if it wasn’t obvious for a third party.

The Elder Brother had called him again the night before. They seldom called each other, the surgeon preferring to show up at the boxing gym whenever he wanted to talk to him. Sandor had guessed there was something unusual and he was right: the content of their discussion was unexpected at the very least.

“I’ve been talking with Sansa Stark,” the Elder Brother had confessed, after the customary small talk.

On the other end of the line, Sandor had remained silent, then he had finally replied: “Good for you.”

“She said she’s- She’s single,” he went on.

“What- Why did you ask her?” Sandor boomed. “She knows I’m a friend of yours, she’s far from being stupid…”

“I didn’t ask her directly, I made sure that she felt comfortable enough to confide in me.”

Sandor facepalmed; he knew exactly what the Elder Brother was talking about, for he had experienced the same situation when he had met the man. He didn’t know how the doctor managed to make people confide in him, but he never failed to learn what he wanted.

“I thought this information could be of some use,” the Elder Brother added. With his guileless and even words, he had the knack of getting on Sandor’s nerves. Just like the night they had drunk a beer by the riverside, he didn’t wait for Sandor’s reaction to take his leave; he hanged up, and Sandor stayed there for a few seconds, listening to the unpleasant beeps.

Maybe the Elder Brother’s call the night before had something to do with his sleeplessness, he told himself, as he replaced the mug on the kitchen table. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sandor got on his feet and put down the now empty mug in the sink. Although he never lacked appetite, he simply couldn’t eat that day. For the tenth time that morning, he called himself a moron, then he put on his shoes and shoved his wallet and his cigarettes in his back pocket: it was time to go.

The little bird had asked him to come bright and early to the motel where she had spent the last two weeks, so that they could go together to her new apartment. She didn’t have the keys yet and she was supposed to meet the owner at that moment: he suspected she wanted him to be there because all this was new for her. The notion she still sought his protection, years after, even if she was a grown woman, awakened something inside him he couldn’t quite place.

 _Stop reacting like a fucking schoolgirl,_ he chided himself as he got into his truck. The engine roared when he turned the ignition key, uselessly underlining his nervousness. Sansa had given him the motel’s address two days ago, on the phone: he knew the place or at least he sometimes went past the seedy building it had become.

Imagining her alone in this motel didn’t please Sandor: it wasn’t a place for a girl like Sansa Stark. _Yet there’s so many things about her I ignore._ He pictured her coming back to the motel after a long day at the hospital, trying to find some peace in a room which was probably too small and smelt of stale tobacco. The only distraction being a TV, she probably fell asleep very soon, and he imagined her lying in bed, squeezing her pillow as the now useless screen flashed its garish light and its distorted images on the bedspread. The very notion of Sansa Stark lying in her bed was enough to bring back the discomfort in his pants, although he had given himself some relief in the shower, a while ago. One more thing that didn’t change, years after.

All too soon, he arrived in the parking lot of the motel, pulled over and got out of his car. She had given him her room number and he felt his heart thumping in his chest as he climbed the stairs leading to the upper level. _Room 13._ He stopped in front of the door, glanced at his watch and took a sharp intake of breath. _It’s time._

After he knocked at the door and before she opened, the maddening thought there could be someone else inside with her tormented him and his throat was so dry when the door finally creaked open that he couldn’t say hello.

“Please come in,” Sansa nonetheless told him.

With her denim overalls and her white tank-top, she looked like she was ready to do home improvements; a pair of red, worn-out Converse completed her outfit. She had put her brown hair up in a ponytail. That was something that amused him when Sansa was a teenager: she always picked her clothes with great care, as if there must be a dress for every occasion. He stepped in. The only window didn’t give much light and the room smelt of cigarette, just like he had imagined.

“So,” she said, wringing her hands, “was it difficult to find the motel?”

He replied he lived nearby and often went past the motel; she chuckled nervously and an awkward silence descended upon them. In the meantime, he swept the room and took in the two duffel bags she had put down on the fusty carpet with a plastic bag containing a wash basin and some detergent. There was a guitar case on the bed. _It’s about time she leaves this place._

“Is all your luggage here?” he inquired, pointing at the duffel bags.

“I traveled light. I knew I wouldn’t stay here forever. All my stuff stayed in the North. Uncle Brynden and the others will bring everything; Rickon texted me, saying they would be here before noon.”

 _Does she chirp because she’s nervous too? Why in hell would she be nervous?_ His eyes drifted back to the guitar case. “So you play the guitar?”

She nodded, a mix of pride and embarrassment making her blush.

“You played the piano back then…” he observed thoughtfully. “Don’t remember you with a guitar.” He moved past her, leaning forward to take the guitar case, breathing in the flowery scent of her hair in the process.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she said with a mysterious smile.

The night he had offered to take her with him, far from the Lannisters, he was drunk, violent and he didn’t have a clue about what he was going to do with her. _Statutory rape. That’s what they call it. I would have committed a crime. She said she didn’t want to come with me, I could have taken her all the same but I didn’t. At least, I did one good thing in my life._ The girl was right: he ignored most of her life, and although he had more often than not wondered about her attitude towards him when they both lived in the Lannisters’ shadow, he acknowledged he still didn’t understand what the hell she had in mind. Sansa Stark was an enigma: his favorite one.

“Maybe I’ll sing for you one day, after all,” she offered and her remark was like a punch in his stomach.

The little bird remembered their exchange, that night. _She’s a grown woman, she knows by now what I meant at the time. Is she just playing with me?_ He swallowed hard and found nothing to answer. Unlike him, she seemed serene and she certainly was happy to check out. She hummed as they left the room and went downstairs, with Sansa’s luggage: he insisted to carry the duffel bags while she took her shoulder purse, the plastic bag and her guitar.

Once her things were inside Sandor’s truck, they headed to the check-in desk and three minutes later, Sansa walked out, a broad grin on her face. Elated, she executed a dance step on the asphalt of the deserted parking lot, to Sandor’s delight; some of her enthusiasm might have rubbed off on him for he chuckled. He resisted the urge to squeeze or to kiss her and took a cigarette instead.

“You mind if I smoke?” he asked, although he already held the cigarette between his chapped lips. He seriously needed the relief smoking gave him when he fidgeted and he doubted her reluctance - if she had ever expressed it - would have prevented him from lighting the cigarette.

Shoving her hands in the pockets of her overall, she shook her head then gave him a curt smile; he guessed she too disapproved his smoking pattern. Tilting his head back and blinking his eyes in the morning sun, he enjoyed the first drag, though he knew she was wondering why he had waited for her to leave the motel before lighting a cigarette if he needed it so badly. _And once more, I look like a pain in the ass._

Summer had just begun and as they stayed face to face in the parking lot, the sun blinded the Northern girl she still was; tired of shielding her blue eyes with her hand, she inspected the content of her purse until she found her sunglasses. In the meanwhile, Sandor stared at her full lips: he was dying to cup her chin and to run the pad of his thumb on her lower lip before kissing her - something he had never ventured to do.

If Sandor had failed to quit smoking, Sansa had kept what Cersei used to call a bad habit: her tendency to bite her bottom lip had not disappeared, and it only increased his desire. The more he craved to kiss her, the more he dragged on his cigarette. He realized smoking was just a pathetic attempt to stave off his need for her lips; that notion was disturbing enough for him to avert his eyes and to slightly turn so that she couldn’t see his turmoil.

“If you take your car to go to your new place, I’ll follow you,” he offered after a while, still avoiding her gaze.

Sansa seemed to not understand why they were standing there, in the sun, when there was so much to do in her new apartment, yet she didn’t make any comment, carefully observing his every move. Her politeness tinged with overindulgence reminded him of their relationship years before, when he couldn’t stand her courtesy. The fingers of his left hand curled slowly until they formed a balled fist; he was more angry at himself than exasperated by her behavior though, and the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come.

In the end, as he inhaled the last long drags of his cigarette, Sandor was forced to admit they had to go. Once she gave him the address, he told her her apartment was located in a pleasant area of the town, thus reassuring her. Then he stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt, before shambling to his truck. Sansa was already heading to her car, an old Ford Taurus which blue body shone in the sun; he couldn’t help smiling, realizing she took her sedan to the car wash on a regular basis. _At least I taught her something._

As he followed her car to her new apartment, he couldn’t help glancing from time to time to the guitar case Sansa had left on the passenger seat, trying to picture her playing the guitar. All the changes he had noticed in her so far roused his curiosity and only made him want to know more about the seven years she had spent far from him. Ahead of his truck, Sansa was very careful not to drive over the speed limit nor to forget to use the blinker: that was exactly what he expected from her.

They soon arrived in the street Sansa had mentioned, entered a parking lot then she pulled over in front of a rather new condominium. Sandor followed suit and parked his truck next to hers, but to his great confusion, she didn’t get out. Through the car window, he watched her taking her phone and reading her texts; it wasn’t good news, most likely, for she frowned deeply. Eager to know what was going on, Sandor unbuckled his seatbelt and eased himself out of his truck. The moment he slammed the door, she swiveled her head towards him and she beckoned Sandor to come sit inside her car.

With his uncommon build, he felt cramped for room in Sansa’s car. “What’s the news?” he asked her, still wriggling and trying to find enough space for his long legs.

“Nothing serious. The owner says he’ll be late. He hasn't even left his home yet. I’m sorry you’ll have to wait.”

Sandor mumbled it didn’t matter and they exchanged a few words about Sansa’s first visit to this apartment and the appearance of the condo: it seemed quiet and well-maintained. In the end, he turned on the car radio, curious to know what kind of music she was listening. He recognized the _Arctic Monkeys_ and on the evidence of her half-smile, she was pleased to share this with him but also embarrassed. If she was one of these persons who think listening to music with other people is something as intimate as being naked in front of them, Sandor could understand; although he never considered himself an artist, he didn’t like sharing with others the music he enjoyed. Music tells more about people that the clothes one wears or the car one drives.

If the song was pleasant, he could tell rock music was not what he expected her to listen. He remembered a naive girl humming the smash hits of pop stars, whereas this song exuded disillusion and irony. Quite a change. As they listened to the music, sitting side by side and wordless, Sandor almost regretted his decision to turn on the car radio: instead of filling time, it only raised more questions about what had happened to her during these years and Sandor was convinced a heavy silence would fall upon them once the song would be over.

_So we all go back to yours and you sit and talk to me on the floor_  
 _There's no need to show me round baby, I feel like I've been in here before_  
 _I've been wondering whether later when you tell everybody to go,_  
 _Will you pour me one for the road?_

Swallowing hard, he stole a glance at her; once again, she was biting her lip, gazing at something straight ahead. She felt the same uneasiness in all likelihood and she suddenly looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, mirroring his attitude. The eye contact was brief and it encapsulated all the tension existing between them since their encounter in the hospital, all their expectations as well. For a split second, he thought he could lean towards Sansa and kiss her, yet he only envisioned it without being able to take action.

Would she ask him to stay once the Northerners would leave and drive back home? Would she politely thank him and let him go while one of the Northerners would stay with her? _Why am I even listening to this fucking song? Why does the bawling of a damn English singer affect me?_ The harm had been done: the song was stuck in his head and the last line of the chorus would haunt him for the rest of the day.

All of a sudden, a black sedan arrived and parked next to Sansa’s. She recognized the owner of the apartment and she rushed out of the car. Was she relieved by the owner’s arrival that distracted her from the tension remaining between them or did she got out of her car hurriedly out of politeness? As Sandor wondered if she expected him to come with her or if she preferred to be alone with the owner, he realized his life was less complicated before her arrival in town. _Less complicated and somewhat boring. I don’t want her to go now._ There was something else he couldn’t place, but he decided his interrogations about Sansa Stark’s return could wait: she had just motioned him out of the car.

He curtly nodded at the old man who rented the apartment to Sansa, taking in the man’s visible discomfort at the sight of Sandor’s scars. Short-legged and rather smiling whenever he addressed Sansa, the owner led them to the apartment located by the swimming-pool. The man opened the door and they all went in; Sandor was quite relieved to see she had chosen a bright, nice apartment, with a separated bedroom looking onto the garden and a rather large bathroom. He stayed silent while the owner and Sansa completed formalities.

From time to time, Sandor caught the owner’s puzzled glances and he understood the man was wondering what he was doing with a girl like Sansa. At some point, he even asked her if she lived alone and Sansa replied evasively, calling Sandor a friend. _So is this how you consider me? A friend?_ He didn’t know if it was flattering or if he should take it as a warning a shoulder to cry on was the only thing she expected from him.

When the man left, Sansa turned to him with a happy grin. “I finally live in my own apartment!” she said triumphantly.

Whatever twisted smile he gave her satisfied Sansa for she squeezed his forearm with excitement and walked back outside to retrieve her luggage from Sandor’s truck. They carried the two duffel bags, the plastic bag and the guitar case to her bedroom; empty, the room seemed probably smaller than it really was.

She squatted in front of the first duffel bag and opened the zip, sighing. For a few seconds, nothing happened and she silently contemplated the clothes inside her bag, until she raised her eyes and took in his large frame in the doorway.

“I’m sorry there’s not even a chair so you can sit down,” she apologized.

“Didn’t I tell you I’m not a cripple?” He sounded much more angry than he wanted and he rued his gravelly voice that made his every word aggressive.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean- Whatever.”

Eyes downcast, she reminded him of the young, impressionable girl he had met years before and he felt guilty at once. Sandor took a step forward. “How can I help you?” he asked, softening. He knelt down because he couldn’t stay for a long time crouching, and he observed her reaction: the girl was at a loss, probably asking herself why he was reacting like this, sometimes ready to snarl at her and almost apologizing one minute later.

“Well, can you fetch me some water?” she said, handing him the small plastic wash basin. “I want to put my clothes away in the closet, but I’d like to clean the closet before.”

“It looks clean, to me,” he rasped.

Her soft, tinkling laugh resonated in the empty bedroom. “You never know what people stored in a closet, before you moved in. I suppose you find this useless. Oh well…”

She was so pretty at that very moment with one suspenders of her denim overall dangerously sliding off her shoulder he found nothing to answer back with and went directly to the kitchen sink, while she brought a sponge and some detergent out of the plastic bag. After he came back to the bedroom, he watched her as she cleaned the shelves. Once she was satisfied, she wiped her forehead and turned to him.

“I know what you think,” she said, breaking the silence. “You’re telling yourself “She’s such a princess.” You’re probably right.”

“I defy you to guess what I’m thinking right now,” he replied, his gray eyes challenging hers.

There must have been something in his tone that made her uncomfortable, for she averted her eyes. He didn’t suspect he could stare her out so easily and he found himself bothered by her sudden shyness, as if his words conveyed some innuendo he wasn’t aware of.

She cleared her throat. “Can you give me the clothes, now? I’ll put them away in the closet,” she offered, taking a tentative step towards him although she still had trouble to hold his gaze.

Sandor knelt down by the open duffel bag and began to retrieve clothes from it. The situation was unusual for him and even unique. Under his callous hands, her skirts and her sweaters seemed so soft he wondered at some point if he had a right to touch them. She picked these clothes in the morning, probably placing them on her bed and chewing her lip to decide if this dress or this Tee-shirt was appropriate. Touching things that belonged to her, that wrapped her in a soft, silky cocoon bordered on sacrilege. Careful not to crease the clothes she had meticulously folded, he held them with both hands, before handing them to Sansa who arranged them in the closet.

“Does it hurt?” she suddenly asked him. Her voice exuded concern.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you stay on your knees for a while, like you’re doing now, does it hurt?”

He shook his head, both pleased and embarrassed to notice she worried about him. As he thrusted his hand again into the duffel bag, his fingers found the hard surface of a picture frame; intrigued, he retrieved it from the bag and showed it to Sansa. She remained still at first, then she swallowed hard and he suspected she was about to cry. The picture was one of those family portraits people hang on the wall of their family room to convince visitors they’re happy and normal. In this case, the picture showed the Stark family before the tragedies that had struck them. Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn were sitting outside, most likely in the garden of their house, Winterfell, their five children surrounding them. Even Jon, Eddard’s son from his first marriage, was there.

 _Where are they all, now?_ Of course, the parents were dead and so was Robb, Sansa’s elder brother. Jon was fighting abroad, as far as he knew, and if the youngest, Rickon, had finally made it back to the family house, Sansa had not seen her brother Bran in years. The boy was most likely in some ashram, racking his brains about questions that were best left unanswered, according to Sandor. As for the only sister Sansa had, Arya, the family’s tomboy, she was missing. Unlike the young woman standing in front of him, the tall, stunning girl of the photo had red hair and a large grin. _Such a contrast._

Sandor wasn’t sentimental by any means, but he acknowledged that, if there was something Sansa had to take with her, in addition to her clothes and her toilet bag, it was this photo. The girl took it, giving the picture a long look, as tears gathered at the corner of her eyes.

 _Don’t be a moron,_ he told himself. _Try to comfort her._ Sandor stood up with a grunt, hesitating. What was he supposed to do or to say? He tried to figure out what the Elder Brother would do in such a case but he rejected the idea at once: he wasn’t the damn Elder Brother and Sansa was not one of those fucking patients the man tried to comfort everyday.

Instead of mimicking the Elder Brother, he took a sharp intake of breath and did what seemed right at that very moment: he stepped forward and brushed her arm up and down, as delicately as he could. When tears rolled freely down her cheeks, he regretted his gesture, but far from pushing him away, she shoved the picture frame in his hand and buried her face in his chest. His back stiffened and the shock was so violent he swayed a little at first, then he anchored his feet to the floor and wrapped a tentative arm around her waist.

Sandor should have said something, but soothing words were stuck in his throat. Ashamed by his own uselessness, he admitted he wasn’t ready to comfort her because comfort was still something unfamiliar and even if his friendship with the Elder Brother had allowed him to confront his demons, he still felt like the little boy he once was, looking silently at his mother while she cried over Gregor’s behavior.

He wasn’t ready and the notion he couldn’t do a good job at reassuring her disturbed him; how could he say he wanted her back in his life if he wasn’t even able to share her sorrow and to dry her tears? Feeling helpless often resulted in fits of anger before he met the Elder Brother; that day, he didn’t feel the tremor in his limb and the pressure in his head that foreshadowed outbreaks of violence, just the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Sansa was still shaking like a leaf in his arms, so he tightened her grip, unsure of what he was doing. If he tried to be honest with himself, her sobs brought him back to his childhood days, before he had hardened himself to resist Gregor’s fiery temper, and it was this peculiar feeling - the feeling he was defenseless, like a child - that made him so uncomfortable. As she went on crying, his shirt was soon soaked and he couldn’t help wondering if these tears dampened the tattoo on his chest he had gotten on a night of blackout binge. _No, don’t think about it._ The tattoo was a reminder of his years adrift and he didn’t want to mix up the wreck he was at that time and the man he tried to be now. _Yet if she sees this damn tattoo…_

Still convulsed with tears, she fisted the fabric of his shirt, until he felt bundled up; then, she stopped crying all of a sudden, let go of him to wipe her cheeks and sheepishly looked up at him. _What the hell am I supposed to say?_ Her eyes squeezed shut with a pained look, then they flew open. He felt as if the fingers of his right hand resting on the small of her back were burning and he slowly let go of her. His other still held the picture frame; when she took a step back, he took it in both hands, to put up a front.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t sleep well because I was too excited. People think I’m strong, but I just fake. I know I made a choice when I decided I would start a new life here, but sometimes, when I see my parents’ picture, I just-” She stopped short from saying more and covered her mouth with her shaky hand.

“It’s alright,” he said, remembering it was one of the Elder Brother’s favorite expressions. He wondered if he should put the picture frame back in the bag or not, then she sniffed and held out her tiny hand. Sandor gave her the frame and watched her as she walked towards the empty place where they would most likely put her bed and her night stand; squatting, she set down the picture frame, so that it stood against the wall. Then, she slowly stepped backwards, looking at the family portrait, until she almost bumped into Sandor. He mirrored her expression, gazing at the photo for a while before feeling the urge to break the silence.

“I liked your red hair,” he confessed in an undertone, whispering as if they stood in a church, looking at some icon.

She didn’t swivel her head to glance at him, yet the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.

“I guess it’s time I stop dying my hair,” she observed. “I’m not a runaway anymore, am I?”

In the silence of the bedroom, he didn’t dare add anything. Nothing important had happened since he had left his house that morning, yet the aggregation of all the tiny events that had taken place made his head spin: since when had he experienced all these contradictory emotions, feeling stupid, then elated, confused, then disappointed, sad and so happy at the same time?

When her fingers brushed his hand, asking silently his support and whatever comfort he could give her, his back stiffened but he couldn’t refuse. Her hand seemed tiny in his, and he called himself a moron for his palm was callous and probably sweaty.

Clammy or not, his hand reassured her and that was for the best. Sandor slightly turned to face her, observing her profile, making sure that she wasn’t about to cry again. If she was paying attention to his labored breath, she didn’t show it; only did she cock her head to the side the moment he leaned towards her, trying to find the strength to kiss her lips. _What do you have in mind?_ her inquiring gaze asked. She very well knew what he was thinking about though, because she spun on her heels and faced him. Still hesitating, he drank in her sight, trying to etch in his memory her fragile look and her full lips the moment before their first kiss.

Determined and loud, a knock at the front door ruined everything. “Sansa!” a boyish voice shouted.

Sandor stepped back at once, arms dangling. The Northerners had arrived.


	3. Episode 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what is it?” she asked again. “If you persist in keeping quiet, I’m going to believe there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”
> 
> Basically, she hit the nail on the head. He didn’t want her to know what the tattoo on his chest, right above the heart, was for, and at the same time he died in want, to tell her. Regaining his composure, he stared Sansa down. “Take a wild guess,” he rasped, challenging her. Now that he was lying on his side, he almost leaned over her.
> 
> She bit her lip and it became obvious that she loved the game they were playing - although there was something akin to apprehension in her eyes, because she didn’t know what she was about to discover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underthenorthernlights beat read this chapter: thanks a lot, UTNL!
> 
> As Rickon makes an appearance in this chapter, I wanted to warn you that this is how I imagined him, in the future, but it's just my version of this character. I based his behavior on my observations: I met some children who grew up only surrounded by adults and who faced difficult moments. They often behave this way.

The moment she heard her young brother’s voice,Sandor noticed that Sansa seemed to forget about him and hurried to the entrance door. Head-hanging, Sandor stayed in the bedroom for a few heartbeats then he followed her, whispering to himself like a mantra: _Might as well say a quick hello and get down to business._ He knew that meeting the Northerners would be no pleasure cruise.

With his gimpy leg, he sounded like he dragged his feet on the floor and he couldn’t help frowning at the thought thatthe Northerners would pity him. Sandor nonetheless headed to the entrance door, ready to endure their wary looks when they would notice his scars. _And remember who I am._ Just like his scars, his bad reputation was indelible.

When he reached the main room, Sansa was hugging a tall kid with long auburn hair and bright eyes. _This one must be her little brother, Rickon._ As Sansa stepped back to welcome her great-uncle and the three more young men crammed in the doorway, Sandor noticed the boy’s worn out T-shirt, with one sleeve torn and Ian Curtis’ face on it. Joy Division. _I see. The kid knows the classics, at least._ Shoving his hands in his pockets, Rickon Stark shot him a curious look - not that unpleasant stare revealing any kind of disgust, but his eyes shone with interest, leaving Sandor dumbfounded.

Standing on tiptoe, Sansa placed a light kiss on her uncle’s gray temple, and the tall and lean old man beamed at her. They exchanged a few words in an undertone and Sandor understood that, behind his large grin, Brynden Tully still worried for her. Under his bushy eyebrows, he had thoseblue eyes Sansa and her brother Rickon had inherited from her mother. In the end, the old man clapped his hands once, moving forward so that the Northerners could come in.

Sandor shook hands with Rickon, then with Brynden Tully, before Sansa introduced the three young men who had come to help them. “This is Marlon Manderly, Wyman Manderly’s cousin,” she said with a bright smile, as a tall, stout man in his thirties stepped forward. He nodded curtly then he patted Sansa’s shoulder with a grin. As he did so, he turned slightly to face the girl and Sandor saw the man had some gray hair. “Marlon, this is Sandor.” She paused, before self consciously adding: “Sandor Clegane.”

Nobody commented, but Rickon chuckled mercilessly at his sister’s embarrassment, so that Ian Curtis’ face on his shirt joggled strangely. Brynden Tully nudged the kid, without much success, and Sansa resumed her introduction. “So... Brandon Norrey Jr. His father and mine were old friends...” Said Brandon Norrey was short and thin compared to Marlon Manderly; he was also younger and there was a gleam of mischief in his eyes. Lifting his right hand, he quickly brushed his temple with two fingers, thus mimicking the salute. Whether it was a random gesture or an aforethought allusion to Sandor’s past in armed forces, it was a mystery. _He looks like a fox, with his red hair and his mustache,_ Sandor mused.

“And finally my friend Harmond Umber,” Sansa said, her voice tinged with pride. She didn’t even feel the need to tell Sandor who he was to her family or if his father was an old friend of Eddard Stark: Sandor read this as a proof of their complicity. This one, almost as tall as Sandor and brawny, was certainly in favor: he squeezed Sansa in his arms, making her squeal in the process, then he burst out laughing. As far as Sandor could tell, the giant was the same age as Sansa: a younger, more attractive and more likeable version of himself. _And to think he’s a Northerner, on top of that._

“I missed you, kiddo,” the giant said cheerfully, tousling her brown hair.

 _What was that?_ Sandor’s doubts came back instantly as the bond existing between these two became tangible with each passing second. Half-laughing, Sansa accused Harmond not to answer her texts, jabbing a finger at his muscled chest; the young man stroke his stubble with amusement, observing his friend with a telltale smile that said “I know you’ve got a soft spot for me.” In the end, Harmond Umber seemed to realize the world wasn’t limited to Sansa and himself; he stepped forward and shook hands with Sandor, looking at him straight in the eyes. _He’s not even unpleasant: life is unfair._

“Let’s get started,” Brynden Tully suggested, rubbing a hand on his beard. “Can we look around the property, Sansa?”

She nodded at that and showed them the open kitchen, with a place for the fridge the Northerners had brought with them.

“Are you tired?” Sansa asked as they examined the main room and the view onto the swimming-pool. “Everything went smoothly?”

Rickon snorted. “Marlon didn’t tell you, sis? The moving van he had rented overturned in the ditch with all your stuff.”

“Very funny, Rickon.”

“Everything’s alright,” Marlon said, his booming voice resonating strangely in the empty space of the living room. “I drove the moving van and I managed not to kill these two assholes, while your uncle Brynden and this runt you call your brother took their car.”

“We got up at 4 o’clock to be here at noon, like we said, baby.” Brandon grinned smugly under his mustache.

“If you have a couch, it should be placed here,” Sandor intervened, showing the wall opposite to the entrance door. Hiding his annoyance was more difficult than he thought and Rickon had probably noticed it, for he chuckled nervously.

Sansa nodded and led them to the bathroom, then to her bedroom. The moment Brynden Tully set eyes on the family portrait in its frame, he placed his large hand on Sansa’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she said, stubborn as ever. “Can we go to the moving van, now?”

One minute later, they were outside and Marlon Manderly opened the van containing Sansa’s furniture and possessions. Among the random IKEA furniture, Sandor noticed a table with its chairs and a bookcase carefully wrapped in moving blankets. He assumed this furniture came from her parents’ home, Winterfell. Sansa climbed inside the trailer and inspected them, putting aside the blanket whenever she could and running her slender fingers on the wooden surface. Satisfied, she turned to them and they began to carry the furniture inside.

Amongst all the consequences of his wound - the never-ending stay at the hospital, the rehabilitation, the pain that came back with every bad turn in the weather, the fact that he limped - there was one thing Sandor hated: not being able to do what he used to do before. _That, and inappropriate sollicitude._ He bit the bullet whenever people expressed their pity towards him. In this case, Marlon politely refused his help to carry the couch and asked Rickon instead, making him feel like he was useless.

Sansa probably sensed it, for she beckoned Sandor to follow her inside the apartment where boxes already waited for someone to empty them. He champed at the bit while the young Northerners carried the furniture and Sansa’s brand new fridge, still wrapped in plastic.

“Someone needs to unwrap it and to plug it in,” she observed once the Northerners left, eager to carry the imposing bookcase and to show their strength to each other.

They unwrapped the silvery refrigerator, before removing the foam core and they placed it at the exact spot Sansa had chosen, moving the device inch by inch, with great care. In the end, Sandor crouched to plug the fridge in while Sansa admired her kitchen.

“You do a lot of cooking?” she asked him. She sounded matter-of-fact.

“Do you fucking picture me with a chef’s hat?” he growled, raising to his full height. “What about you, little bird?”

She laughed. “It- it depends. It’s different if I’m alone or if I have guests.” Maybe he was having visions, but she seemed to blush prettily after that. However, he didn’t have much time to ponder over her attitude: her dear friend Harmond had just come in. Beaming at Sansa, he walked toward her and made her spin on her heels so that he was right behind her.

“Look at the fridge and tell me what you think, Harmond,” she said cheerfully. Harmond’s hands rested on her shoulders but she didn’t seem to pay attention, as if it was something usual. “We placed it this way. I think it’s more convenient and-”

Sandor didn’t listen to the rest; he already felt like an intruder and he didn’t want to interrupt anything - even if Harmond had been the one who had interrupted them. Dozens of questions churned in his head: if she was in love with this boy, why did she choose to move? Was Harmond ready to follow her and to find a job there? In this case, she had rented this apartment not only for herself but with the idea Harmond would join her soon. Why is she playing with me? The notion she might be toying with his feelings - assuming he had feelings for her - hurt Sandor more deeply than he had imagined. Her attitude earlier in the bedroom, when she had cried on his shoulder came down to this: a farce and he had been taken for a ride. _So that’s it: she wanted someone’s help for today and here I am, torturing myself because I believed she wanted me to be here for another reason than just carrying boxes._

He was furious at himself and as usual when irritation took hold of him, he regretted his exercise bench and his dumbbells; exercise soothed his nerves and he had found this way to deal with anger since he had moderated his alcohol consumption. Jaw clenched, he dwelt on his rage and went outside. Rickon was there, puffing and panting inside the trailer: he tried to carry a box full of tableware. Sansa’s little brother was sixteen or so, according to Sandor, and he wasn’t muscled like his older companions.

“Can you help me, dude?” Rickon asked. _At least someone needs my help._

Sandor didn’t like being called ‘dude’ in the boxing gym and he didn’t like it outside either. He didn’t raise his voice about it though; he climbed inside the trailer and he silently took one handle of the box while Rickon took the other one.

“So tell me something,” Rickon began as they carried the heavy box out of the moving van. “My sister claims she stumbled upon you at the hospital where she works. Is that true?” Putting down the box after he got down from the trailer, he pushed back the long, unruly hair that hid his face.

“Why would Sansa lie to you?” Sandor countered.

“I don’t know.” Despite his innocent gaze, Rickon looked like some fucking boy too smart for his own good, who knew exactly why his sister would lie to him. “She thought you were dead, man.”

 _By the end of the day, he’ll call me ‘Sir’,_ Sandor told himself, a sarcastic smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Hold on a minute,” he told Rickon as they resumed their task. “If this box goes in the kitchen, we should wait.”

Rickon’s blue eyes widened like saucers. “Why? What’s happening in the kitchen?” he asked, feigning sheer panic. Sandor, who wasn’t in the mood for jokes, rolled his eyes. “What?” Rickon insisted.

“Your sister is in the kitchen with her... friend.”

Rickon arched an eyebrow. “Her friend? Yes…” He put down the box but never stopped staring at Sandor. “Let’s give them some privacy, then,” he suggested, smiling with a knowing look. There was something disturbing about Rickon, because he sometimes spoke like a spoiled brat, while his candid eyes belied his mannerism. Sandor soon realized Rickon was about to laugh; he glared at him, just like he did when one of the boys he trained at the boxing gym misbehaved.

“You should see your face, man!” Rickon said, repressing a fit of laughter.

Sandor didn’t understand why the sight of a man who had most likely let the chance pass him by was so funny.

* * *

 

His mood was somber during the lunch - Sansa had ordered pizzas and they had eaten in the main room, sitting on cardboard boxes that still contained books. Sandor wasn’t sure anyone had noticed his silent hostility because Brandon Norrey spent his time telling jokes instead of eating and the rest of their little group laughed heartily.

The afternoon was a sad repetition of what had happened before lunch: the Northerners carried the remaining furniture, pieced together Sansa’s bed and her desk, while Brynden Tully and Sansa put away the tableware and knickknack. Sandor ended up with Rickon again, arranging books in the bookshelf. Medicine, novels, poetry, leather bound books… He didn’t know she possessed so many books and he didn’t know either why these books should be sorted by domain then by alphabetical order.

“Looks like we’ve been punished,” Rickon observed in an undertone, rearranging a book Sandor had put at the wrong place. His sister was within hearing range and he seemed to fear her reaction if she ever listened. “You look sulky,” the boy added.

“We’re almost done,” Sandor explained. “Your sister still has some stuff to arrange in her closets and in the kitchen cupboards, but frankly, I feel like she doesn’t need my help. I can’t even carry furniture with my gimpy leg, or so they say.”

He didn’t even try to hide his resentment towards the Northerners. For a change, the brat didn’t know how to reply and they resumed their task in silence.

“There’s a problem with the sink.” Sansa’s voice came from the bathroom, and Sandor turned his head instantly, thus making Rickon chuckle once more. When her slender frame appeared in the doorway, she set her eyes on Sandor and he felt suddenly weak. “There’s a problem with the sink in the bathroom,” she said again. “Could you have a look, Sandor? Please.”

How could he refuse her anything? He left Rickon with the damn books, followed her to the bathroom. With its small hexagonal tiles on the floor and the large ones, black and pink, on the walls, it looked like the bathrooms of the first half of the twentieth century, although the shower and the pedestal sink were rather new. Sandor was certain thislarge, vintage bathroom was one of the things that had made her choose this apartment. After a quick look at the sink, he announced would need the tool box he kept in his truck.

Five minutes later, he was lying on the tiled floor, and he tried to unscrew the U-bend. The bathroom vanity was a random wooden shelf hidden by a curtain; Sandor had placed it in a corner to access the U-bend. The damn thing resisted, as if it was stuck. Sandor grimaced, stifled a curse and finally unscrewed it.

“Can you give me a plastic basin?” he asked her. She was standing by the sink and from where he was, he had a low-angle view on her long legs. _Lovely._ Lovely and cruel too, when he thought of the giant from the North who made her laugh so easily, it seemed. Sansa mumbled something, turned around and held out the basin he needed.“Whoever lived here didn’t see fit to unblock the U-bend,” he added, shifting and sitting up.

The stench made her wrinkle her pretty nose when a heap of hair and filth fell in the basin with a squelch.

“There’s something else,” she whispered, once he was done. “I turned on the faucet, but I can’t get hot water.”

Sandor got on his feet with a grunt and tried the faucet, under Sansa’s scrutiny. The water running on his fingers was cold, like Sansa had said. Suddenly having an idea, he turned the faucet all the way to the right, and then quickly removed his hand: the water went piping hot in no time and the burn briefly tinted his skin with pink.

“They inverted the cold and hot water. An easy mistake to make,” he explained, turning to her and taking in her sight. Even with her denim overall and her tank top, she was stunning; Sandor made a tremendous effort not to drool over her but the closeness was something difficult for him to handle.

“I’m- I’m going to fix this,” he said, feeling like he faltered before her like a fucking schoolboy.

“I don’t want to bother you with this. It doesn’t matter, as long as I know-”

“My pleasure.” He was already crouching, trying to figure out which pipes had been inverted. The crouching position soon became uncomfortable and he lied down flat on hisback again, extending his arms to reach the pipes.

“Are you angry at me, Sandor?” Her question felt like a punch in his guts. _Fuck. Is it that obvious?_

“No, I’m not.” His tone was too dry not to belie his words.

She knelt beside him and suddenly he could have a look at the sad smile on her face. “No need to pretend, Sandor. I know you are.”

He stopped fumbling with the pipes and bored into her eyes. “Your friends made it clear; I’m not able to carry furniture, because of my leg. I feel like I’m good for nothing. I’m hardly able to arrange your books.”

“But you’re fixing the sink!” she protested, her high-pitched voice exuding disbelief.

“Any of your friends could have done this. I’m not mad at you, rather at myself for believing I could be of some use. I feel like I don’t belong here.” These last words summed up pretty much all he had experienced since his childhood.

Sansa sighed, head-hanging. “I’m sorry. I wanted you to be here. I never imagined you would-”

“Forget it, girl.” Clenching his jaw, he focused on the pipes. “Could you turn off the water inlet?”

She stayed still for a heartbeat, staring at him, then she stood up and left the bathroom. _Congratulations: she’s gone._ Sandor rued his habit to rebuff people while anyone else simply complained; with his last remark, he had made sure she wouldn’t come back to him. Worse, at the end of the day, she would thank him with a forced smile. _I’m an asshole. She’ll never want to see me again and she’ll be right: she deserves someone better than a social outcast with a gimpy leg._

A sigh escaped his lips; frowning, he asked himself if it was a sigh of frustration, because it was over and she would never forgive his foolish attitude. Perhaps he was relieved after all because it was over and he would leave the gray area where everything was possible, where he spent his time debating with himself about the slightest thing Sansa had done or said, trying to know what it meant. He would be soon in his comfort zone, going from the boxing gym to his house next to the woods. An occasional visit to the hospital, where he would make sure he didn’t meet her. He had a curious sensation at the back of his mouth, but he refused to admit it was a lump in his throat.

Now that the water inlet was turned off, it was easy to switch the pipes. He concentrated on his task, with the faint hope that useful work could make him forget he was a bastard who rejected Sansa Stark’s tender heart with obstinacy. _You don’t allow anyone to come to you,_ the Elder Brother had told him, during one of their first conversations. _I didn’t even learn my lesson, concerning her; I deserve all the bad things that happened to me, especially the fact that I’ll die alone._

Yet Sansa had said something that puzzled him: _I wanted you to be here._ She had whispered these words with a pained look, and she probably meant it. _What the hell is that supposed to mean? Am I the only person whom she said these words or did the Northern boys scouts heard that too?_ Before he could decide, the door opened again and Sansa’s mile long legs came into his field of vision. Both astonished and hesitating, he decided to remain silent.

He expected her to ask if he needed something or if he was almost done, but instead of restricting herself to the role of the perfect lady of the house, she surprised Sandor by kneeling next to him, then lying down so close her bare upper arm brushed the sleeve of his checkered shirt.

“I want to learn,” she said quietly, “ so that I can do it myself. Teach me.” Her voice, poised and soft, didn’t express the exasperation he had deserved for rebuking her five minutes before. The smell of her hair, light and floral, tickled his nose, and somehow forced him to pay attention to her and to her only; it felt like their worlds were colliding, hers invading his. There was nothing to do against that. _Nothing at all. Just yield._

Lying flat on her back, next to Sandor, she looked intently at him, and although the sink above their heads partially blocked the light, he could tell her blue eyes shone with determination. Unintendedly, he glanced at her cleavage. The wall lamp lit the front patch of her overall and a part of her white tank top underneath it; as they were both lying under the sink, shadows moved with the slow rise and fall of her chest. That sight, combined to the scent of her hair, was intoxicating. _Fuck, she’s too close._ She seemed to blush. _Back to square one. Say something. Now._

He cleared his throat. “What- what do you want to learn?”

“Plumbing basics, if that makes sense.”

He showed her the U-bend, told her she needed to unblock it from time to time and explained her how easy it was. “There’s one thing you should not forget,” he said in the end. “If it’s not the U-bend or if you feel lazy, you can call me.”

“So you don’t feel useless?” Her pleading eyes bored into his, and he felt like she needed reassurance. As for him, he certainly needed to keep her lying next to him: it wasn’t time to send her packing.

“No, I don’t feel useless.” An awkward silence stretched in the bathroom until Rickon’s boyish voice reached them, somewhere else in the apartment, like a faraway sound. “Well, I’ve fixed the pipes, so you won’t scald yourself when you turn on the faucet to get some cold water.”

Sansa was so close she somewhat prevented him from getting on his feet. He contorted himself as she remained still but she stopped him. “Wait a minute! You have a tattoo on your chest now? I remembered the small ones on your arms, but not that tattoo.”

His shirt had opened while he squirmed to lie down or to get on his feet, most likely, revealing the letter S in gothic style, upstrokes and downstrokes of dark ink on his rather pale skin.

He stopped wriggling and rolled on one side, facing her. “Seeing me shirtless by the swimming-pool once when we both lived with the Lannisters doesn’t give you a right to judge my tattoos,” he retorted, frowning but playful. Leaning on his elbow, he watched her cheeks and throat redden with an inexplicable sense of pride.  Talking with her - could he say flirting with her? - felt good. _Fuck, I missed that, too._

She laughed and locked eyes with him, before pushing aside the fabric of his shirt. “An S. Interesting. What does it mean? S for Sandor?” she offered. Her full lips curled up as she smiled, promising sweet kisses and songs hummed next to his ear, tempting him.

“Nope.” The feel of her fingers on his chest was thrilling, but he still considered it dangerous. Sandor wondered if the losses Brynden Tully had experienced these last years had made him overprotective towards his nephew and niece; he took her small hand in his, not ungently, and he put it back on her belly. It could be all in his mind, but her breathing became faster and it drew Sandor’s attention on her breasts. He hardened instantly.

“So what is it?” she asked again. “If you persist in keeping quiet, I’m going to believe there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”

Basically, she hit the nail on the head. He didn’t want her to know what the letter S on his chest, right above the heart, was for, and at the same time he died in want, to tell her. Regaining his composure, he stared Sansa down. “Take a wild guess,” he rasped, challenging her. Now that he was lying on his side, he almost leaned over her.

She bit her lip and it became obvious that she loved the game they were playing - although there was something akin to apprehension in her eyes, because she didn’t know what she was about to discover.

“S for snail? shoe? squirrel?” she enumerated. He slowly shook his head without ever breaking the eye contact. “S for-” She paused, hesitating, and anticipation set his pulse racing. Say it. Deep down you know what it means.

The door flung open and Rickon came in uninvited. “What the fuck are you two doing here, on the bathroom floor?” he asked, dumbfounded and amused in equal parts. The sight of his sister lying flat on her back on the tiles while a man he barely knew leaned over her, was certainly entertaining for a teenager with a twisted mind. _And to think she had her hand on my chest a minute before..._

“Rickon, why do you always feel the need to curse like a sailor?” Sansa retorted, hiding her embarrassment under outrage. _The proper little lady is back._ She scrambled to her feet.

“Two things, sis,” he said with his smartass tone. “First, “fuck” is not even a curse. I mean not anymore.” Sansa tried to cut him off, put he pointed at her commandingly. “And I thought you liked guys who swear like troopers.” Rickon gave his sister a devilish look. What was that?

Sansa glared at her brother and hurried to the kitchen. In the meanwhile, Rickon observed Sandor who was still lying on the tiled floor. Sandor didn’t want to look like he fled the battleground; he slowly sat up, then got on his feet.

“We fixed the sink,” he told the boy. As he walked to the door, he stopped by Rickon and towered above the brat.

“Yeah, I see that. Your shirt is unbuttoned, man.”

Sandor shook his head disapprovingly and left the bathroom. In the empty hallway, he tried to suppress the stupid grin on his face, without much success.

* * *

 

At the end of the afternoon, Rickon sprawled on the couch and stared at the ceiling, blissfully happy. “I love this place,” he announced. “It’s sunny, compared to Winterfell, there’s a swimming-pool and the neighbor’s daughters are hot.”

“Rickon!” Sansa protested.

“I tell you, sis, next month, when school is over, I’ll come to visit you. And the neighbor’s daughters.” With a wicked grin, he stretched his limbs and closed his eyes, as if ready to take a nap.

Brynden Tully came closer silently then kicked his nephew’s leg that dangled out of the couch. “Time to go, Rickon. If you don’t want to spend the whole night on the road, we should leave your sister now.”

Rickon grumbled, made faces and finally jumped on his feet. “It’s unfair! I didn’t come here to carry boxes and to unpack; I don’t know shit about carrying boxes. I came for the party.”

“Who told you there’s a party?”

“There’s always a party after,” Rickon retorted, brushing back a lock of his hair. “That’s when things become interesting.” His enigmatic smile underlined his mischievous tone and it made his sister roll her eyes. Sandor asked himself what the kid suggested by this. Leaning against the doorframe, he observed the whole scene, amused by Sansa’s exasperated look whenever she set her eyes on Rickon.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Sansa asked her uncle, deliberately offering her back to her brother. “It’s a long road. The boys told me they’ll stay for dinner and-”

“I’d like to stay, sweetie,” Brynden replied, “but this young man has a Calculus exam on monday and he needs to review differential calculus. Or whatever it is he learned this semester.” With a pat on Rickon’s shoulder, he laughed heartily.

By his side Rickon looked exaggeratingly defeated, his hunched shoulders and his sheepish expression meant to move his sister to pity.

“You want to make me cry or something?” she told him, cupping his chin. She didn’t even sound surprised the kid overdid it.

Rickon was already taller than Sansa, yet at that very moment, as she was standing in front of her younger brother, Sandor had an inkling of what the last months had been like for her. She had taken care of Rickon since the day she had come back, supervising his homework, making sure he didn’t mix with the wrong kind, meeting his teachers. She had been his mother figure, always sweet and tender, but scolding him when necessary. As she looked intently in Rickon’s eyes, telling him to give her a call if he needed help with his Calculus lesson, Sandor foresaw the mother she would become one day, devoted, anxious about her children and always loving. Witnessing this scene, so common for most people, but so unfamiliar for Sandor made him feel strange. There was something deep down he couldn’t quite place and he decided it was probably time for him to go back home.

Brynden Tully already walked toward him, smiling, his open look contrasting with the attitude Sandor had expected from him at first. “It was nice to meet you,” the old man said, giving him a firm handshake. “You’ll keep an eye on the little one for me, right?” he added in an undertone.

“Always,” Sandor replied. Saying he was touched by this token of trust was an understatement.

“Hey, buddy!” Rickon sang out, hamming it up. While Brynden Tully walked away to take leave from the other Northerners, the kid planted himself in front of Sandor and flashed a smile. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon. Thanks for your help with all these damn boxes… and on behalf of my sister, thanks for the sink.”

Too mortified to say anything, Sandor mumbled something and shook the kid’s hand hard enough to crush it. After that, Rickon exchanged a few words with the three young men who waited by the entrance door; Harmond Umber tousled Rickon’s long hair and Brynden Tully finally opened the door.

“I’d better go home, now,” Sandor announced.

Sansa shook her head. “You stay and have dinner with us. I won’t take no for an answer.” She glared at him as he asked if that was what she really wanted. Alright, then.

“Drive safe!” Sansa told her uncle and her brother. “Oh, and Rickon… behave!”

The brat turned around and pointed at her playfully. “You, behave!” The last of his smug smiles was for Sandor and suddenly the entrance door snapped shut.

Sansa brought her hands on her hips and swept the main room, looking at the three Northerners and the tall, disfigured man who stood away from them. Her brother’s last remark had bothered her, on the evidence of her blushing cheeks, but she tried to save face. “Everyone likes Chinese food?” she asked.

* * *

 

Sandor had never imagined Rickon’s departure could have that effect on him, but it was obvious: since the kid and his uncle were gone, he felt - again - he didn’t belong there. What did he have in common with the three young men who looked at Sansa with puppy-dog eyes? Even though Harmond, the one who managed to get most of Sansa’s attention, seemed a decent guy - Sandor acknowledged it with reluctance, but he knew it was true - he had nothing to tell him, and he certainly didn’t have anything to say to the two other ones: Marlon, with his beer bottle glued to his hand and his bovine eyes, looked like a curmudgeon. Brandon, on the contrary, had straddled one of Sansa’s precious chairs and he jabbered on, his red mustache constantly moving above his mouth; Sandor was happy the guy was out of his reach - otherwise he would have slapped him in the face.

As luck would have it, Sansa had beckoned him to sit in the couch, next to Harmond. Although the couch was a large one, there wasn’t room for a third person once they were both settled down; she thus sat cross-legged  on the floor, at Sandor’s feet. Her unceremonious posture surprised him; there were chairs available, but she overlooked them. She thus was at the center of their small circle, laughing at Brandon’s jokes, smiling to cheer up the taciturn Marlon and nudging Harmond from time to time.

At first, he asked himself why she had insisted until he agreed to stay for dinner, as she had her back to him; since Rickon and Brynden Tully’s departure, they had not exchanged more than two words. After he had eaten half of his chow mein, he put the takeout box on his lap, his chopsticks stuck into what remained of his noodles and he considered leaving. He only needed an excuse of sorts to leave the girl with her three Northerner beaus. That was when Sansa shifted and brushed his leg again. The first time, Sandor had told himself it was an accident. _How many accidents does it take to become intentional?_ Before he could figure out the answer, she glanced around her shoulder and looked up at him smiling. Once more, the promises he saw in that smile got the better of his doubts. When she turned around again, his resolution had weakened.

“Don’t you want to sit down on a chair?” Brandon asked Sansa. “Don’t tell me you’re comfortable, sitting like this.”

 _Shut the fuck up._ Sansa chuckled, caught with a forkful of noodles on its way to her mouth. “Actually, it’s more comfortable than it seems.” To demonstrate her point, she sat back, thus leaning against Sandor’s leg. “You don’t mind if I use your leg as a cushion?” she asked him, throwing her head back until the nape of her neck rested on his knee.

“You know I don’t,” was all he could offer.

There was an embarrassed silence afterwards: it had happened earlier in the evening when Harmond and Sansa exchanged one of these inside-jokes that delighted them. Sandor felt awkward, but it was like being back in the game. Besides, he might have finally understood why Sansa had chosen that place close to him rather than another one: she had her back to him and they didn’t talk most of the time, but while she was sitting cross-legged at his feet she reminded him he wasn’t alone by brushing his calf or by leaning against his leg. I’m here with you, said the warmth emanating from her upper back.

He stopped wondering if he should leave and turned his thoughts in another direction. What would happen afterward? Was he supposed to leave when the Northerners would say goodbye? Did she want him to stay? Sandor knew exactly what he wanted, every fiber of his being shouted he needed to stay with her, yet he admitted it was either strange or creepy depending on the point of view: they had met again a few days ago and he couldn’t just pretend the last seven years had left no trace. Besides, there were a couple of things to sort out, like the way he had abandoned her years before or the awkwardness underlying their exchanges back then. Fuck, that’s too much. He wished Sansa told him to stay with her, but it was only a wish, as silly and unrealizable as those wishes he had when he was eight. _I wish my scars could fade. I wish Mom was with me again._ The notion Sansa could tell him to stay was just as unlikely. _Is it even a good thing if I stay tonight, so shortly after we met again?_

Brandon Norrey kept telling jokes while his food was cooling down. As for Sandor, he tried to get past his future disappointment by enjoying the contact of Sansa’s upper back and shoulders. _I’m not ready,_ he told himself. _I wish I was, I wish things were simpler._ Everything was confused in his mind and beer didn’t help untangling his problems.

All of a sudden, Sansa shifted and turned around, resting her elbow on his knee. She held out her takeout box to him. “Want to trade? What’s in yours?”

“Chicken chow mein. What did you order?” he asked in response.

“Shrimps. I love shrimps.” She smiled, grabbed the box resting on his lap and gave him hers.

Even though Brandon went on with his uninteresting japes, Sandor felt the others’ gaze weighed heavily on him, as if they finally noticed his presence. He nevertheless tasted the shrimps she had left for him. Sansa’s constant thoughtfulness towards him was a surprise for the Northerners. Whether they viewed him as a useless stranger, assumed his scars and his limp would disgust Sansa, or not they had refused to see him like a rival. Since her uncle and brother were gone though, Sansa took a perverse pleasure in showing them Sandor was as close to her than the three of them. Neither the young years spent near Sansa’s hometown nor the fact their families were friends with the Starks changed anything. Unbidden, the lyrics of the song he had heard that morning in Sansa’s car came back:

_I've been wondering whether later when you tell everybody to go,_

_Will you pour me one for the road?_

Would she find an excuse to keep him after the Northerners were gone? A part of him wished she did, while conscience told him it was too soon. Sandor could almost hear the Elder Brother’s voice advising him: _no need to rush._ He snorted at that, but as Brandon had just told them the punchline of one of his countless jokes, the others thought he was enjoying Northern humor.

The conversation wound down and the Northerners began to talk about how they would take turns to drive back home. Brandon suggested with a wicked smile he could stay there while his companions headed North; Sansa didn’t even reply. Finally, Harmond got on his feet with a sigh; he told Sansa it was pitch-dark and they should leave. They exchanged a few more words about people they knew in the North. In the meanwhile, Sandor went to the bathroom, took his tool box and walked back to the entrance door.

“Already leaving?” she asked Sandor. She seemed disappointed, but the next moment she was talking to the Northerners again and he didn’t know what to think. _I’m a grown man, am I not supposed to see when she wants me to stay or not?_

They all exited the apartment and walked to the parking lot. Under the halo of a street lamp, Sandor shook hands with the Northerners; they hugged Sansa. At that very moment, Sandor should have waved goodbye and limped along to his truck, a little further on the parking lot, yet his feet refused to obey and his stayed there, a few yards from Sansa. Brandon found another story to tell, just to play for time, then Harmond motioned them inside the moving van. By his gesture, the tall Northerner seemed to acknowledge they could only retreat, that Sansa had made a choice of sorts and it was time for them to go back home. Harmond’s eyes briefly met Sandor’s as he slid into the moving van; there was no hostility in his eyes, just the feeling that he might have let the chance pass him by. It felt strange to read on someone else’s expression what he had experienced these last few days.

Marlon started up the van, put it in reverse while Sansa waved at them and finally the moving van crossed the parking lot before disappearing in the night. Sansa exhaled a deep sigh.

“Are you alright?” he rasped, taking a step toward her.

“Yes. I’m exhausted but I’ll be just fine.” Perhaps it was a groundless impression, but her voice sounded shaky. “What about you? You must be dead tired.”

“I should go, now.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gave her whatever twisted smile his half-burnt lips could form. He had made up his mind: staying was a bad idea even though he read in her blue eyes she wanted him to linger. She was confused too, if the way she bit her bottom lip was any indication. _Perhaps is she as confused as I am._

“There’s something I wanted to tell you,” she whispered as he took tentative steps to give her a last hug. Her faraway look worried him. “I just- got divorced. My lawyer says they will send me the official paper soon. Anyways, I never got a chance to celebrate so far.” She glanced at him, embarrassed. “It would be weird to go out in this town I don’t know, so… will you join me?” Again, she bit her lip. Under the street light, with her ponytail and her denim overall, she looked so vulnerable he resisted the urge to take her in his arms.

“Of course, I’ll come. Whatever you want.”

His heart pounding wildly in his chest, he closed the distance between them and hugged her briefly, his nose brushing her hair. _That scent, again._

“Sleep tight, little bird,” he murmured. “And call me when you need something.”

He walked backwards to his tool box, then he took it and walked to his truck. She was leaning, her back against the entrance door of her apartment, looking intently at him as he drove away,across the deserted parking lot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading: I never thought this story will receive so much encouragement and I want you to know that every comment or kudos means the world to me.


	4. Episode 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you don’t hold it against me?” Sandor asked her.
> 
> A smile graced her lips. “I don’t blame you for telling me the truth. What I can hold against you, however, are these terrible flirting techniques you have, Sandor Clegane. You’re the only man I know who takes his date to the place where he got shot at.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: the bars mentioned in this chapter are, of course, a reference to the inns described in A Song of Ice and Fire. Some of the events told by Sandor are freely inspired from Arya’s chapter XIII in A Storm of Swords.

The familiar noises of the gym - dull sounds of a fist hitting a punching bag, raucous laughters and boys calling out to each other - would disturb him for sure so he closed the door of his small office and sat down behind the desk, on the old swivel chair. Like the boxing gym, the chair was part of the Barristan Selmy legacy, and it made a weird sound of protestation under Sandor’s weight. _Alright. Let’s get done with it._

After he had left Sansa alone in her new apartment, getting to sleep had not been easy and Sandor had revived a long tradition of sleeplessness. As a kid, he didn’t sleep because his desire for revenge kept him awake whenever something made him think about his fucking brother; later, in his late twenties, his obsession for a certain red-haired girl had taken precedence over his wish to kill Gregor. Today, Gregor was pushing up daisies and the last scion of the Clegane family clutched to the belief he had no good reason not to sleep the sleep of the righteous. Until he met her again.

The night after Sansa had moved in her apartment - thus taking up residence in the town he lived in - he had tossed and turned for a long time before exhaustion came; finally, he had slept like a log for the second half of the night.

Of course, the day after, the Elder Brother had questioned him about that Saturday spent with Sansa: his old friend had thrown questions thick and fast after he had knocked at his door. If the doctor thought Sansa’s arrival would make him forthcoming and erase long years of muteness, he was totally off-base. No matter how blatant Sandor’s reluctance was when it came to Sansa Stark, the Elder Brother had kept deluding himself: it had mostly been the doctor talking that afternoon in Sandor’s kitchen, while his host sipped his beer, embarrassed, bored, yet polite enough to utter from time to time a monosyllable or a grunt of approval.

Among the countless comments the Elder Brother had made, one or two had captured Sandor’s attention - although he would never admit it. His friend had insisted on Sansa’s kind thoughts, he had underlined how Sansa had repeatedly taken the initiative. Implicitly, he meant a woman couldn’t always take the lead, that it was Sandor’s turn to do something. Sandor had shrugged at that, but the idea slowly took root; the next move had to be his.

“Did you hear from her, since yesterday?” the Elder Brother had inquired.

Sandor had shaken his head, hiding his abashment behind the thin curtain of his hair, but he had had his answer. Calling the little bird was a good start. It didn’t have to be a long call, no, just a short conversation to remind her he was here and her well-being concerned him.

A thud, followed by expletives, informed Sandor one of the boys had fallen flat on his back on the boxing ring; the noise out of the office roused Sandor from his thoughts. _Do it now. Just pick up the damn phone and make this call._ A quick glance at the old sunburst wall clock confirmed it was 1 p.m.: it was most likely lunch break at the hospital and it was the right moment to call. His stomach gurgled noisily, but Sandor would have to wait before gulping down whatever he would buy at the nearest food truck.

Ignoring the plastic dial phone sitting imposingly on the desk - with its finger wheel dial, the phone was another relic from the seventies left by Barristan Selmy - he retrieved his cell phone from his back pocket. The piece of paper with Sansa’s number was stored in his wallet, with his driver’s license, because in the end it was just as important as the plastic card. Perhaps even more. Sandor had been playing with that piece of paper for what seemed like hours, running the tip of his fingers on Sansa’s neat handwriting until he realized he could erase her phone number by doing so.

What was that lump in his throat? Sandor called himself a moron as he looked for her number among his contacts, then as he placed the phone next to the remains of his left ear, he waited with bated breath, counting the unpleasant beeps until he understood she wouldn’t pick the phone. _Oh no, not her voicemail…_

“You’ve reached Sansa Stark. I’m not here but I’m sure you know exactly what to do after the beep.”

He cursed in an undertone, a convenient way to hide his embarrassment bordering on panic.

“Hi, Sansa, it’s Sandor,” he mumbled. He frowned at the sound of his own raspy voice. _Fuck, what am I supposed to say?_ Collecting his senses, he went on: “I- I hope you’re doing good. Just wanted to find out what you’re up to. How are you?” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “OK. Just call me back when you have some time.”

The cell phone almost slipped between his hands and it landed on the desk as Sandor face-palmed. Where did this ability to make a bloody fool of himself came from? Exasperated by the whole situation and ruing the idea the Elder Brother had given him the day before, he stormed out of the office, told off a boy who was eating a sandwich next to the treadmill and walked out of the boxing gym.

* * *

It wasn’t enough for him to leave a stupid message on Sansa’s voicemail, or so it seemed. When he arrived to the food truck, the last of the chicken tenders were gone and he had to content himself with shrivelled up pizza and french fries. He growled at the guy inside the food truck, grabbed the food and began to eat on his way to the gym. Even if the boys inside the boxing gym were decent and responsible - they were high schools kids who came there to practice during their lunch break instead of smoking pot or bothering girls - Sandor didn’t like to leave the boxing gym unattended. _You never know what can happen._ Even now with his slight limp, his long strides quickly led him to the parking lot where the boxing gym was located.

Once inside the gym, he softened a bit when he saw Podrick Payne’s shy smile. Slightly older than most of the gym’s frequent visitors, Podrick already worked as a waiter in some restaurant on the outskirts of town. Sandor knew the boy tightened his belt to pay the modest membership fee, so he pretended not to notice when he was late in paying. In exchange, Podrick had offered to close the gym when Sandor couldn’t. He exchanged a few words with Pod, recommended one of the boys that he kept his back straight while lifting weights and he walked back to his office.

Ironically enough, something unexpected had occurred during his absence; Sandor noticed it straight away when he took the cell phone he had left on his desk instead of shoving it in his back pocket, infuriated after his attempt to call Sansa. For some reason, Sandor didn’t like phones; a new message or a missed call felt like a veiled threat, an intrusion. It inevitably awakened his suspicious nature.

Sansa had called him, probably right after he had closed the office door, and he had missed her. For the second time, Sandor face-palmed, then he listened to the message she had left.

“Hi Sandor, it’s me. I’m sorry I missed your call and I wish I could talk to you now… but never mind. I’m doing good. Yesterday I tidied up the apartment, so everything found its place now. I have a long day of work at the hospital, but I really want to celebrate… you know, my divorce. I need that pub crawl you promised me or whatever it is. What about tomorrow night? I don’t know if you’re free on Tuesday nights, so call me back. You’ll probably reach my voicemail because I must go now. If you’re not free or if you changed your mind, just... tell me.” There was a silence, then he heard her voice again: “Thanks for checking on me. I can’t say I’m surprised you did so, but… thank you. Call me, Sandor.”

A stupid grin illuminated his face when he shoved the phone in his pocket. _I’m fucked-up,_ was the first thought popping up in his mind. The little bird insisted and she was kind enough to think that he might not be free on Tuesday nights, as if it wasn’t plain to see that Sandor Clegane was a loner who spent his nights pumping iron or doing the gym’s accounts. _Why is she so fucking adorable? And why in hell does she even want to celebrate something with me? How could I say no?_ Sandor shook his head with disbelief; his smile didn’t vanish, but a dozen questions chased these thoughts. Should he call her back now? Should he wait? What was he supposed to say? Where would they meet and where to go? Should he take her to the _Crossroads_? Perhaps the _Seven Swords_ in Duskendale was a better choice. It was far, but… _No, the Crossroads. It has to be the Crossroads._

In the end, remembering some stupid cue he had heard in a dud, he decided not to call immediately but to wait. _Never call back straight away. Never. Don’t look desperate._ Sandor couldn’t restrain himself from picking up his phone for a very long time but at least he would try not to reveal how impatient he was. _I’ll wait until 3 p.m. before calling. No... 2:30 is good._

* * *

“What’s the matter with you today?” Barristan Selmy asked him the morning after.

The old man was standing on the threshold while Sandor opened the drawers of the desk one after the other, frantically looking for the certificate Barristan demanded. Behind Barristan, Sandor could see one of the most dedicated boxers of the gym who had just arrived; bending over, his hands resting on his knees, the man panted after his daily jogging. Barristan folded his arms about his chest. Now in his seventies, the gym owner only showed up from time to time, whether it was for a courtesy call or because he needed something he had left at the gym. Barristan came at a bad time, he probably knew it but he couldn’t understand why: under his uncouth outward appearance, Sandor always gave him a cordial welcome. _Except for today._

“Sorry, I can’t find it.” After cursing and mauling the drawers because the damn paper had disappeared, Sandor realized how rude he was and he softened.

Barristan took a few steps forward and appraised him, scratching his white head. “Is something the matter, Sandor? You know you can tell me if you have trouble with the IRS or with the city hall.”

Sandor let out a deep sigh and stood up, hands resting on top of the desk. “It’s nothing, really. I’m a bit tired, that’s all.”

Across the desk, Barristan frowned suspiciously. “I know what you look like when you’re tired, boy. Today you look nervous.”

Sandor lifted his hands in a clumsy attempt to reassure the man. “Don’t worry. It’s not about the gym.” Fuck. If only he knew what I have in mind.

“Your health, then?” Barristan’s frown deepened, thus revealing his concern. “I warned you about your chain-smoking tendencies… So what is it?”

Sandor did the only thing that annoyed Barristan and the Elder Brother even more than his fits of temper; he stared at the man and he walled himself off in silence.

“Alright,” Barristan said, the thin line of his lips slowly turning down in disappointment. “If you don’t want to talk… I’ll come back later. Try to find the certificate by then. Have a nice day, Sandor.”

Sandor muttered a perfunctory “goodbye” and the old man left. As much as he respected Barristan Selmy - one of the few persons who trusted Sandor and who worried about him - he couldn’t envision telling him about Sansa. _Fuck me! What could I tell him? “I’m thirty-eight and tonight is special because I go on a date for the first time… Any ideas?” All this is fucking nonsense._ Could he even say it was his first date? Over the last five years, two or three women had been reckless enough to try to stick around; they had all given up after two or three weeks. Sandor didn’t remember taking them out. _When you run into a girl in a bar and you pick up the check, is it a date?_ He shook his head. _And when a girl tells you she wants to celebrate her divorce with you, is it a date? Nope._ His shoulders sank. _It’s not a date._

Sandor had to close the boxing gym himself that night - Podrick would had volunteered if his service didn’t begin at 6:30 p.m. - so Sansa and he had agreed on meeting at her place, at 9 o’clock or so. From her apartment, they could walk to the Crossroads. The bar was just a short way from her place and a stroll at dusk, in June, promised to be relaxing.

Sandor’s reluctance to explain why he was so nervous had surprised Barristan - perhaps had he even hurt him - but could the old man understand? He shook his head once more, before snorting at his own foolishness. _I almost convinced myself I’m a the first person to experience this, like a fucking teenager who thinks he’s the first boy to fall in love._

* * *

 As the last kids began to jam their things in their gym bag, in a sweat and exhausted by workout, Sandor walked to the showers at the end of the locker room. Going back home to take a shower and to change clothes would be too long so he had decided to take advantage of the locker room in the gym. When he exited the locker room, he felt clean and somewhat relaxed, even though he knew the butterflies in his belly would come back once knocking at Sansa’s door.

Sandor locked the doors of the boxing gym, got into his truck and drove to the condominium where Sansa lived. Glancing at his reflexion in the rear-view mirror, he realized his hair was still damp; droplets scattered the collar of shirt, leaving slightly darker marks on the gray fabric. _Who cares? This is not a date, after all._

He parked his truck, got out and limped toward Sansa’s door. As expected, the butterflies had come back; he cleared his throat, rang at the door and observed his surroundings to hide his awkwardness. The sun was setting, everything was quiet, except for a few laughs coming from the swimming-pool, behind the building.

Sansa opened the door and beamed at him. “Come in, please. I’m almost ready.”

He mumbled something and followed her in. As she stood in front of the mirror she had hung on the wall by the entrance door, Sandor drank in her sight. She wore ballet flats, a pair of worn out jeans, a strange white top that was belted, emphasizing her narrow waist; further down, it flared like a skirt. Her loose hair partly covered her shoulders, but she looked at her reflexion hesitatingly, brush in hand. _Too bad her hair is still brown._

“You look pretty,” he said in a clumsy attempt to prevent her from tying her hair back.

She turned to face him, delighted. “Really? I wasn’t sure you would like the peplum top.”

“The peplum top?” he repeated, wondering what the hell she was referring to. I don’t know shit about fashion.

He looked so disconcerted she felt the need to add, showing her middle: “This is a peplum top.”

Sandor grumbled something about women’s fashion that made her giggle and he finally said he liked it. She wasn’t overdressed but her simple attire was feminine. It almost said _“I’m not going on a date, am I?”_ Hands shoved in his pockets, Sandor smiled at that idea.

“Did you eat something?” she asked after a quick walk to the bathroom and back. The floral scent in her hair intoxicated him when she moved past him, revealing she had just put some perfume on. She opened the closet where she stored her shoes and her bags. “I can prepare something for you if you didn’t.”

He didn’t answer straight away. Technically, he had enough time to eat before coming to her place; he had even bought extra food at lunch and saved it for his dinner. The thing was, he had lost his appetite. Knowing he had to be in control that night because the little bird might drink too much - she had insisted on celebrating and he guessed she wouldn’t be satisfied with just one beer - he had nonetheless made himself eat a bite or two.

“I’m good, thanks,” he replied, amused by her concern.

“Shall we go, then?” She grabbed her purse and they exited her apartment.

* * *

The _Crossroads’_ new owners took pride in their establishment’s appearance. Oddly enough, it had been built as a replica of old taverns, with false timber frame and a thatch roof that propelled its customers in the Medieval times. It boasted three stories, with a turret at each corner; on the side of the building, the bell tower never failed to intrigue the new comers. When Sandor told her that was the place he had chosen, they could see the tavern from across the street; she marveled at the building, confessing it had drawn her attention while driving to the hospital. She spent the rest of their walk to the _Crossroads_ silent and starry-eyed.

“You chose well,” she commented as he opened the entrance door then stepped aside out of gallantry. “Now I feel like a real lady.”

“Do I look like a fucking knight in shining armor?” he teased her.

Moving past Sandor, she looked up at him, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Don’t ruin the moment.” Her blue eyes slightly narrowed but she smiled.

He felt proud, a little embarrassed too, and jealous over all when men started to look at her, as they came in. He remembered coming there, too, some years ago, and the memory of his night at the Crossroads made him clench his jaw. Was it a mistake to take her to this place? One feeling chased another, leaving him almost giddy. His old reflexes came back and he spotted the fire exit on the opposite wall, on the right, and the swing door leading to the restrooms. Even years after leaving the Lannisters, he still behaved as if he was Joffrey’s bodyguard.

On Tuesday nights, the tavern wasn’t crowded like it usually was at the end of the week, but Sandor knew assholes and shit disturbers came anyday in places like the _Crossroads._ For now, Sansa contemplated the decoration of the tavern, gaping at the huge white-stone fireplace contrasting with the mud-colored walls and she craned her neck to see the coats of arms hanging everywhere. Even the furniture - solid wood trestle tables, benches and old-fashioned wooden trunks with forged iron locks and handles - created an unreal atmosphere. The owners didn’t go so far as to impose medieval tunes to their customers; Sandor recognized some rock cover of a traditional song. _It’s classy, now._ Next to him, Sansa grinned. She loves the place. _Good for me._

“Where do you want to sit?” he inquired, protectively placing himself between her and a group of young men he didn’t know. Too young, too noisy, and soon too drunk to keep their filthy hands away from her. He had already glared at a boy who had obviously trouble keeping his eyes where they belong.

“What about the counter?” she suggested cheerfully, showing two empty bar stools, further on their left.

“You’re living dangerously, girl,” he commented, nevertheless leading her to the counter.

Once seated on the wooden bar stool, Sandor rested his elbows on the countertop and hunched his shoulders to be eye-level with Sansa who seemed mesmerized by the bar shelves in front of her and their content. The sight of her, toes resting on the bar stool footrest, keeping her back straight and drawing her hair over her shoulder, was enough for him to gawk helplessly. Feeling his gaze on her, she swiveled her head, offering him a graceful smile.

“I love this place, Sandor.”

He laughed, leaning toward Sansa to nudge her. “I wish we had a tavern with marble columns and huge amphoras, to match your Roman top.” With that, he couldn’t help glancing at her V neckline and he noticed with pleasure how she blushed: even the delicate skin of her throat was reddening.

“It’s a peplum top,” she corrected, giggling. There was a silence, then she asked: “Do you often come here?”

“No, not anymore.” Should he tell her what had happened at the Crossroads? She looked so damn pleased and the atmosphere of the tavern was so different from what he remembered he was afraid to spoil everything. “I haven't been here in a while,” he said cryptically and she frowned at that, probably dying to know more about his long absence in the pub, he told himself. The question never came, though: if she was tempted to ask why this was his first visit there in years, Sansa knew better than to voice out her interrogations. Just like when she was a teenager, he mused, watching her bite her lip.

His tone could have ruined the atmosphere, without the new owner’s arrival. Sandor knew Jeyne Heddle only by reputation, but when the kids of the boxing gym spoke highly of someone, he always listened carefully. The tall, thin girl behind the counter smiled at them while adjusting the headband that kept her brown hair from hiding her face. She wasn’t older than Sansa, yet her efforts to turn the _Crossroads_ into a respectable bar and to build up a new customer base were praiseworthy. The local newspaper had even honored Jeyne with an article and a photography of her and her sister Willow, by the counter.

“Welcome to the _Crossroads_ ,” Jeyne said. “What can I do for you?”

“What would you like to drink?” Sandor asked Sansa.

“I don’t know.” Hesitation made her pout, something that never failed to increase his desire to kiss her. She turned to him slightly and added with a hint of mischief: “Choose for me.”

He didn’t remember her challenging him, at least not this way, when they both were under the heel of the Lannisters. She resisted him sometimes, she tried to reason him - uselessly - but she always trembled before Sandor when he was angry. _So what? Have I lost my tough guy aura?_ He ordered J &B for both of them, then he turned to the little bird to watch her reaction. Undeterred, she smiled at him. The more time they spent together, the more he realized he knew nothing about these last seven years. Did she drink now? Being a nurse didn’t mean her behavior was always beyond reproach. Apparently, she didn’t smoke cigarettes, but he couldn’t be sure she didn’t enjoy weed. _She’s changed._ Sansa watched him without flinching now and when he became aware her eyes wandered about his chest, up and down, appraising his muscles under the fabric of his shirt, he reacted like she would have done a few years ago: her look sent a shiver down his spine.

“What?” he asked, unease disguised in brusqueness.

“Nothing,” she said casually. Thanks to a strange role reversal, Sansa was conspicuously confident while his words fled him.

Jeyne placed two coasters in front of them, then two polygonal edged glasses; with a smile, she poured the amber liquid in the glasses and turned to the customer sitting next to Sansa.

Sandor glanced at his companion, sensing the toast would have more importance for her than she would ever admit.

“Here’s to-” he began, lifting his glass. “To what, Sansa?”

Sansa looked at him playfully. “What do you suggest?”

He was at a loss for words. “Fuck, I’m better at drinking than at making toasts.” She laughed. They had both swiveled their hips to face each other, creating their own bubble from which the other people were banned. The realization made his throat as dry as sand. “Here’s to… your new life here.”

“Not bad. I thought you would say “Here’s to single life.”” Holding his gaze, she mirrored his attitude, lifting her glass. “Here’s to my new life here, then, and to old friends.”

He nodded, then took a sip. And to all the words we will never speak. “I never thought we were friends at that time,” he whispered, thinking aloud. Sandor regretted his words instantly and called himself an asshole. You’ll never learn, Dog.

“You’re right, we were not friends, when I was a kid,” she approved. “That being said, when I think back on my stay in the south, you were the only person who was... friendly with me. If we were not friends back in King’s Landing, then I had no friend at all; that’s why I told myself you were my friend.” She sounded melancholic; her eyes had fallen on her lap, where she rested her glass.

Putting back his own glass on its coaster, Sandor scooted to the edge of his seat, until his knee brushed Sansa’s. This contact seemed to rouse her from her thoughts and she looked up at him, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m not that straightforward, most of the time,” she apologized, the shrug of her shoulders almost childish. “Did I offend you?” He shook his head. “Good. Offending you is the last thing I wanted.”

Silence stretched between them, while a group of young men chorused an old song by The Specials. Sansa glanced at them, before turning to him again; she bit her lip.

“You’d better say something now, or else I’ll think I spoiled everything,” she said, smiling but shifting uncomfortably on her seat.

“So you’re divorced now,” he began. He rued his bluntness at once. Fuck, what was that question? He rolled his eyes at his own words as Sansa chuckled.

“Some things will never change, Sandor... Yes, I’m officially divorced. Twice divorced, in fact, and I’m only 23. For my grand-parents’ standards, I’m a slut. It’s probably a good thing they’re not here anymore to witness the downfall of the Stark family.”

“It was forced marriage, both times,” he observed, trying to make eye-contact with her.

“I guess you’re right. That being said, before I married Harry, I clutched to the faint hope he could… I don’t know… save me, or something like that.” She kept her eyes downcast, visibly ill-at-ease.

Sandor cleared his throat. “We’d better change the subject,” he suggested.

“No, we won’t.” She sounded determined; locking eyes with him, she raised her glass to her lips and drank the rest of her scotch in one go. “Alcohol is supposed to make these things easier, right?” She put her empty glass down on the counter and he noticed that she suppressed a wince with faint smile. "So what do you want to know?"

“Did they hurt you?” he rasped. He wasn’t sure he wanted any details about her married life, but that question had haunted him since the day he had heard about her wedding with the Imp.

“Tyrion never hurt me, he left me in peace. He said I was a baby and he prefered whores. Then I left with Littlefinger and I soon realized what kind of mistake I had made. He wanted to control my family’s assets and he wanted me forhimself. By marrying Harry, I became a wealthy girl. You know, people thought my husband and I were so influential… We were not: Littlefinger controlled everything, including us.” She paused. “I knew Littlefinger wanted me, so I begged Harry to do something about that. He said no. That day I found out he didn’t give a damn about me... and I didn’t really care about him either. So I prepared my escape and I- I just ran away. It was three years ago. Harry did all sorts of things to make sure I wouldn’t divorce, that’s why it took so long, but now it’s over. And Baelish is dead.” She remained silent for a few seconds, staring at her lap, then raised her blue eyes again. “It’s good to talk. Painful, but good.”

Sandor extended his arm and brushed the back of her hand. It was more a primal need to touch her than a premeditated gesture, so his fingers lingered there, warming up against Sansa’s skin; when she opened her hand and tried to take his, he barely understood what was happening. Sansa’s fingers weren’t long enough to circle his hand: in the end, he felt like he should be the one to take her hand in his and the way she let herself go, her muscles relaxing under his touch confirmed she liked it. They stayed like that for a while, face to face, her hand in his, resting on Sansa’s thigh, until she broke the silence.

“What did you do after you left, seven years ago?” she asked.

Did his fingers tense, after he heard her question? He took a sharp intake of breath, then he tried to collect his senses. “I’ve been to places. I met people, not the kind you want to hang out with. I’ve done bad things too.” Around him, the lights, the customers and the whole tavern seemed to reel. “This- This is the place where I got shot at, Sansa.”

She gasped in shock, her eyes widening like saucers. “What are you talking about? Someone shot at you here, in this bar? Why did you take me here, then?” She thinks it’s tasteless, morbid perhaps.

He shrugged. “This place has changed. We’ve changed too.” He called himself a fucking coward, a wimp for not telling her straight away what this was all about.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, then when she opened them again, she said, softening: “What happened? Who shot at you?”

“The tavern you’re in has nothing to do with what the _Crossroads_ looked like at the time. The new owner - the girl who served us - she’s Masha Heddle’s niece. Masha owned this place for years. She was murdered and after her death, there were more thieves, crooks and convicted felons here than in the local prison. I was reckless at that time - just the way I was when I left you - and-” Her blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears, locked with his. “And when I arrived here, three of my fucking brother’s men recognized me. We fought, inside, at first, then in the parking lot.”

It took him some time to realize Sansa’s other hand rested on his, in a protective gesture. He went on: “I killed one of these bastards, but I got shot at.”

“You said they were three. What about the two other men?” she inquired.

“They were already dead. So I got into the car and we ran off.” Her eyes narrowed when he said “we”. _There’s no way to avoid it, now_. “I wasn’t alone, Sansa. Your sister was with me.”

Her two hands withdrew immediately, leaving an unpleasant sensation of coolness on his skin. She felt betrayed, he could tell it.

“Arya? What was she doing with you?” He noticed that she struggled not to shout and her neighbor glanced at them suspiciously.

“I told you I did bad things in my life. You know what I’m capable of, little bird. After I ran into your sister, I thought I could… extort money from your family before giving Arya back to your uncle.”

“Why do you tell me all this only now?” she accused him.

“Because I knew you would give me that look.” Ignoring the way she cringed and her frown, he cupped her chin. “The look the little bird gives me when she’s upset and she wants me to fuck off.” Reluctant at first, she sniffed, then she finally met his eyes.

“Where was Arya during the gunfire?” she asked.

Sandor hesitated, then he rasped: “I’m not going to lie to you, Sansa. She shot the two other guys. A kid, probably Arya’s age and a motherfucker she had met before. After that, we ran off, as I said. We didn’t go very far. I was fucking bleeding.”

“So Arya took you to the hospital?” _She can’t imagine her bloody sister not doing her best to keep me alive._ A long time ago, he would have found pathetic the way she trusted Arya because he couldn’t fathom what love between siblings meant; now her faith in her wild, hot-tempered sister just seemed strange and fascinating.

He shook his head. “No. When I realized I was dying, I told her to take me out of the car and to shoot me there, on the roadside.” He pointed at his chest. “Right in the heart. She refused, left me on the yellow grass, got back into the car and she disappeared.” After a quick glance at the counter, he told himself emptying his glass of scotch might help, so he threw it back; the liquid burned down his throat. “Some people found me on the roadside, they took me to Quiet Isle General Hospital and that’s how I met your boss. I never saw your sister again.”

His story visibly shook her and for long seconds, she remained motionless, as if paralyzed. “Why didn’t she take you to the hospital?” she asked, brow furrowed. It doesn’t make any sense for her.

“Sansa, your sister had just killed two people, I had a gunshot wound. The cops would have arrested her. I’m gonna be honest with you: I used to hate her for leaving me alone, dying, and for refusing to kill me. Today, I understand. Because your sister fucking hated me and because she wanted to take off. I was a bastard and a dead weight, so she left me when I gave her a fucking opportunity to do so. End of story.” Some details were best ignored: he didn’t want Sansa to know how much he had regretted her absence when lying on the roadside, how much he wanted her cool hands on his burning forehead, nor how pointless his own existence had seemed at that very moment, when everything was about to fade into blackness.

“So you don’t know where she is?” Her voice was tinged with wariness.

“I heard she was abroad, but that’s all I know.”

Regardless of her make-up, Sansa sunk her face in the palm of her hand. “I need another drink.”

Sandor called the bartender, ordered two more glasses and turned his attention to the little bird. She faced the counter now and absentmindedly played with the coaster, until Jeyne Heddle came back with a bottle of J&B and a knowing look that said _“Lovers’ quarrel: I’ve been there”._ That was what their body language shouted: Sansa, staring at the counter, ignored him, while he was still on the side, facing her sulky form.

“You have every right to be mad at me,” he whispered. “If you leave now, or if you want me leave, I’ll understand.” I’ll step aside. I already did it once.

Without looking at him, she shook her head. “I want you to stay. So much for that celebration about my divorce, huh?” Behind Sandor, a woman laughed heartily, soon followed by her male companions, and their high spirits underlined the gloominess that had fallen on them. “Why are you so honest?” she suddenly asked him swiveling her head.

“Why are you so sweet?” he said in echo.

“Sandor, I- I mean it. Why are you so honest, why do you tell me something that will upset me? That’s something I never understood, that… habit you have to tell people the naked truth instead of wrapping it up.”

“There’s no way to wrap it up. This place - the Crossroads - was seedy back then, I was a bastard who failed to ransom a teenager and... your sister and I killed three people.”

At that very moment, Sansa Stark did something that stunned him: she wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek and she grabbed his hand. After she collected herself, she asked again: “What happened to you once you arrived at the hospital? Did the cops arrest you?”

“I was a wreck, so they left me alone for a while. The Elder Brother must have felt like he had a bad karma, because he insisted on finding a lawyer for me; he even found someone who had watched the gunfire and who testified I shot in self-defense. I was released: a fucking nonsense, given all the things I did prior to that, but I didn’t complain. I kept a low profile until the Lannisters lost their influence. Then Barristan said he wanted to retire; I already worked at the gym, so you can say it was the natural course of events.”

Sansa shook her head in disbelief: “Bad karma? That’s how you explain why the Elder Brother helped you? For God’s sake, Sandor…”

He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable with the whys and wherefores of people’s acts of kindness towards him. As his eyes fell away from her, he realized their glasses were untouched so far.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, one elbow rooted to the countertop and ducking his head to make eye contact with her. “You wanted to celebrate and I screwed up, with my ramblings about your sister.”

Sansa didn’t answer at first and only squeezed his fingers gently; when she locked eyes with him, she exhaled a deep breath. “I’m glad you brought it up. And I won’t let all this get under my skin. It’s... part of the process.” As if she noticed his furrowed brow, she went on: “I suppose everybody expected me to stay in the North after I ran away. They thought I would, I don’t know, take care of the Stark legacy. I thought I would do that, too, like a dutiful daughter. The thing is, I can’t live according to what people think I should do. I don’t want them to think of me as the heiress of Winterfell, because that’s not who I am. And to be honest, I’m not sure I’m able to shoulder that responsibility for now.”

Again, the pressure on his fingers increased slightly, as if she found courage in his touch. “Maybe I’ll come back North someday, but for now, I don’t want to live in the past. Coming here was part of that process; listening to what you had to say about Arya and not letting my emotions get the upper hand is important too. Blaming you won’t bring her back. At least, you kept her safe for a while.”

“So you don’t hold it against me?"

A smile graced her lips. “I don’t blame you for telling me the truth. What I can hold against you, however, are these terrible flirting techniques you have, Sandor Clegane. You’re the only man I know who takes his date to the place where he got shot at.” Her eyes sparkling with mischief, he watched as she observed his reaction. “Come on, it’s your cue,” her blue gaze said.

“I didn’t think it was a date,” was all he could find.

“Well, it’s not a date anymore, now that I have this mental image of you, bleeding in a ditch,” she teased. “You’ll have to do better next time.” She sat up straight on the bar stool, repressing a smile like the proper little lady she was.

 _Next time. Next time?_ He leaned forward until he breathed in the scent of her perfume; she probably could smell his Cologne. “What if I leave the bar and come back? I want another chance and you deserve a better celebration of your divorce with this asshole.”

“I’m afraid you’ll still have to make up for it,” she replied, her assent disguised in a pout. Feigned haughtiness made her even more irresistible; he craved to kiss her. On her lips and basically, everywhere else.

His face was still inches of hers. “I can think of a way to make amends,” he growled. He played with her nerves, because her eyes widened at that before she regained her composure. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

While he stood up straight and walked to the door, he felt the perplexed gaze of the other customers and hers, warm and curious. Outside, it was dark and the only things that proved he wasn’t alone were the bright red embers of two cigarettes and the smell of smoke that tickled his nostrils. For a second, he considered the opportunity of having a smoke, because he craved a cigarette, but the little bird was waiting for him inside. _Come back and make it right._ Smiling, he took a sharp intake of breath to enjoy the faint scent of tobacco, gave a last look at the quiet surroundings of the _Crossroads_ and he walked back inside.

After the silence of the parking lot, the atmosphere inside the _Crossroads_ , hot and almost clammy, struck him. Leaving behind him a couple making out by the entrance door - _are they even able to reach the back seat of their car?_ he asked himself - he strode towards the counter. _Make it right, make her laugh if possible… Fuck._ He stopped in his tracks when spotting a brown-haired man standing next to her, ready to sit down on Sandor’s bar stool. He was one of the young pricks who had eyed Sansa right after their arrival. _Asshole. You don’t know what you’re doing._ He remembered how anger had built inside him, years before, when locking eyes with Polliver, but it was entirely different; he was dangerous and there were only dangerous people around him. Today that kid would get away with no more than an intense feeling of humiliation emphasized by his buddies’ presence and an epic memory he would tell his grand-children, slightly changing the outcome, perhaps.

Coming closer, Sandor heard Sansa’s polite yet annoyed voice: “... waiting for someone.” She still had her back to him and the fucker who was daring enough to believe he could take Sandor’s seat was too busy ogling her to notice his looming form. “Well, looks like he’s here. Hi, Sandor,” she went on, as if he had been gone for a while. Her eyes lingered on Sandor with something akin to relief. _“Get rid of him, please,”_ her pout said.

The young man, average in height and build, probably a student on a pub crawl with his friends, swallowed hard at his sight, yet he didn’t move.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Sandor rasped.

“I- I’m talking to this girl,” he slurred, pathetic but electrified by his friends’ eyes on him. Sandor heard them laughing behind.

“This is my seat and this is my glass of scotch,” Sandor explained, his tone as steady as possible although something inside him wanted to strangle the boy. “And she’s not your girl either.”

Sansa bit her lip at that. Was she exasperated by his possessiveness or did she feel awkward because of what his words conveyed? He couldn’t tell, and his inability to decipher her thoughts, although now familiar, only increased the speed of his pulse. The guy looked hard at him, vaguely disgusted by Sandor’s burned face and already too drunk to notice how his rival towered above him.

“Fuck off,” Sandor commanded as the other one remained silent and motionless.

“Fuck off yourself!” Behind Sandor, the cluster of friends - visibly as drunk and as stupid as the tool who stood in front of him - laughed again.

A sarcastic smile twitched the burned corner of his mouth. “Go back to your seat. The lady told me she wanted to have a nice moment and I’d be sorry to crush your head against the countertop with her watching.”

The asshole’s eyes narrowed. In all likelihood, alcohol made him uninhibited. “I don’t know, man.” He looked around, pursing his lips, his gaze sweeping the empty bar stool, the glass and finally Sansa. “I don’t see your name on these things.” In the meanwhile, a younger, shorter version of Jeyne Heddle who could only be her little sister appeared behind the counter and placed Sandor’s glass a bit further, next to Sansa’s. _Good girl; she reads my thoughts._ Around them, people had stopped talking and Sandor felt their stare on his face, on his broad shoulders and on his clenched fists. They apparently waited for the moment when things would go south, expecting Sandor to do something wild. _The thrill of a dogfight,_ he thought.

“You’d better go,” Sansa told their uninvited guest. Her tone was dry and cutting, yet he shrugged, chuckling at her words.

Sandor only needed a signal to give the boy a lesson; when the young prick made a slight movement suggesting he was about to sit down on the bar stool, Sandor yanked the collar of his shirt then, by a downward movement, he crushed the boy’s head against the countertop. The right side of his face flattened against the hard surface of the counter, the intruder squealed; after a few gasps of surprise, most customers started to laugh.

Merciless, Sandor held his victim firmly despite his poor attempts to wriggle away; like some insect pinned by an entomologist, he flailed in vain. Sandor leaned over him and whispered in his ear: “Didn’t your mother tell you not to insist when a lady says no?”

The boy tried to look up at Sandor, even though his uncomfortable position made it barely possible. There were fear, resentment and shame in his dull blue eyes; sickened, Sandor let go of him so that he could stagger towards the table where his friends were gathered. A half-smile lit Sansa’s face as Sandor finally sat down next to her, heaving a sigh.

“Must feel good to be your girl,” she commented. “Always ready to fight for what’s yours.”

He shrugged, ashamed to realize he had never been in what she could call a long-term relationship. “Don’t know that, little bird.”

“My ex-husband was ready to share me with a man old enough to be my father, so I see a huge difference. Still…” Her voice changed, becoming playfully arrogant.  “... you’ll have to make up for that, too. A brawl isn’t what I imagined for the rest of the evening.”

Shoulders hunched so that he was eye-level with her, he rasped: “And what is it you have in mind for the rest of the evening? You make me curious, girl.” The innuendo had poured out of his lips before he realized it; that was something that often happened when he ran into Sansa Stark, years before, because he loved to scandalize her and also because he was always in the mood for suggestive remarks with her.

As expected, she blushed and her eyes darted away from him, before settling on their glasses. Her back stiffened as she regained her composure. “We should drink. You asked for another chance, you make a toast.” All that feigned confidence made him want to disturb her a bit more. I want her to squirm under my gaze, he decided. The discomfort in his pants came back and he wondered if she would notice it or not. All he knew was that he would not try to hide it. _I want her badly and she knows it: I’m not going to throw myself on her, but I won’t pretend either. I’m done with shitty games._

Still faking composure although her red cheeks betrayed her, Sansa carefully pushed his glass and its coaster towards him, thus encouraging him to make another toast.

“Here’s to the little bird and to all the things that make her blush prettily.” Everything about him, from his husky voice to his deliberately slow delivery, from his stare to his attitude, leaning towards her, had but one and only one aim: seeing her turning red, from hairline to cleavage. A triumphant smile on his lips, he watched her going purple and shaking her head as if to remove whatever dirty thoughts his words suggested. Sandor couldn’t help thinking of her in his bed, squirming under his gaze and he could tell she was fighting to confine that idea to the back of her mind.

He was about to raise his glass to his lips when she stopped him. Still blushing, she cleared her throat, then offered: “To Sandor and to his bad manners, for I missed them.”

* * *

They drank.

Sandor had promised to make things right and he did: he made her laugh, he made her talk about her beloved little brother and her great-uncle, he told her stories about the Elder Brother. He made her blush again, with his innuendos. He never let her out of his sight, afraid the spell would break if he turned his attention to something else, even for a split second. His little bird was sitting next to him, facing him just like he faced her. With one elbow resting on the counter, she mirrored his attitude, and from time to time, their fingers brushed or her hand accidentally touched his; they ignored the rest of the world and he was grateful for that. She laughed at his comments and she let him drink in her sight. She enjoyed her time with him and more than once, he told himself it was too fucking good to be true.

That peplum top, or whatever it was called, was a cruel way to tease him, because he couldn’t see anything, yet the damn thing underlined her curves. He wanted to wrap his arms around her narrow waist, to run his hands down the smooth skin of her bare arms. For the first time in his life, he understood why the patronesses in his hometown said the V neckline was a devilish invention: it showed him the shadow gathering where the valley of her breasts began, whenever Sansa leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, but he couldn’t see anything else, and that - that insult to his most primal needs, see and touch - was unfair. Her breasts looked round and firm underneath the ivory fabric of the top. Tantalizing. He pictured himself undressing her and he mentally shook his head. Sacrilegious, even now that she was a grown woman, but he had never been a godly man.

When Sansa began to sway on her seat and when the soft lilt of her laughter resonated whether he said something funny or not, he understood it was time to go and he turned to the bartender.

“One for the road?” Jeyne Heddle suggested.

“No, thanks.”

He retrieved a couple of banknotes from his wallet, slid them between his glass and the coaster and got on his feet. Jeyne smiled at them as he grabbed Sansa’s wrist to prevent her from falling, when she reached her feet to the floor. She was a bit tipsy and he felt obliged to protect her.

“Good night, then,” Jeyne whispered with a knowing look. _Whatever that woman imagines, she’s wrong,_ he complained inwardly. _I didn’t get Sansa drunk and I’m not going to take advantage of her. Not like that._

As they walked out of the _Crossroads_ , Sansa stumbled and caught hold of his biceps. Flushed, she didn’t refuse when he offered her his arm. “You’re a knight in shining armor,” she teased.

“Don’t call me that.”

Before pushing open the door, he glanced behind him and noticed the bunch of students who had leered at Sansa had disappeared while he paid the check. _Strange. They were sitting there a minute before._ He wasn’t seeing things; crumpled banknotes were still on the table.

They nonetheless exited the tavern and crossed the parking lot, before he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He turned around just in time to dodge the bottle the brown-haired prick who had bothered Sansa an hour before waved. Two of his friends were behind him.

“Stay away,” Sandor hissed, addressing Sansa. “And when I say “run”, you run.” He just hoped she was steady enough on her feet.

The student he had humiliated mumbled incoherent things about his pride and the vengeance he sought. One of his friends tried to reason him, except he was drunk too; Sandor knew by experience alcohol didn’t make anyone eloquent. The third one didn’t say anything, ready to keep score. In the circle of light the street lamp provided, the brown-haired student giggled at his friend’s arguments and waved his bottle once more, trying to look ferocious.

“Drop that damn bottle!” Sansa advised him. “Drop it and leave us alone.”

The moment he raised his empty bottle again, Sandor made him lose his balance. The bottle crashed to the ground, the shattered pieces of glass twinkling under the electric light. A hammerlock and the boy was on his knees, begging.

While holding the student firmly, Sandor looked up at his two friends who gaped. “Want me to go on?” he grunted, his face distorted by a cold rage. “What’s wrong with you? Sober up in your car or call a cab to drive him home, I don’t give a shit, but get lost or I’ll hurt him for good.”

They nodded with a frightened look and when Sandor snatched his wrist away from the boy, the three of them ran to the opposite side of the parking lot, without ever looking at him.

He finally turned to Sansa who hugged herself. “You’re OK, little bird?”

She nodded, taking tentative steps toward him. “So the Hound didn’t disappear?” she inquired, half-smiling. “Were you ready to fight for me?”

“What do you think?” He shrugged, embarrassed by her question and clutching to the belief that she would never ask it if it were not for the Scotch she had drunk.

Sansa gave him a long look and closed the distance between them. “I think you always wanted to be my hero, somehow.”

Alcohol-induced jokes. Great, he mused, although the idea Scotch might loosen her tongue and make her say truths she would never confess otherwise crossed his mind. “Let me walk you home,” he sighed.

As she glanced behind them from time to time, he understood the incident in the parking lot had frightened her. The little bird was also cold and she slipped her hand in his, staying close, her shoulder bumping against him until he wrapped his arm around her waist. After a while, she hummed and made small talk, but when they arrived in the parking lot of her condominium, her tone changed slightly.

“I won’t let you drive home,” she said, suddenly serious. “You drank a lot too and I don’t want you to have troubles.” As he refused, she insisted. “You’re not able to drive now. I’d say you did it on purpose to be sure I’ll offer you to spend the night here, but I don’t mind, really: you can stay.” Alcohol made her snuggle against him and Sandor realized he could have her that night if he wanted. Should he claim her mouth, she was too grateful and too weak to protest if he tried to take her. _Except I want her to recall our first night together, if we ever share the same bed._

One slender arm snaked around his neck until he lifted his hands in acquiescence. They were in front of Sansa’s door and he had to restrain himself from pinning her to the wall. “It’s OK. I’ll take the couch.”

The spotlights of the parking lot and the outdoor staircase lit her face and he saw her mischievous smile when he mentioned the couch. He tried to ignore her lascivious gaze while she looked for her keys in her purse, glancing at him over her shoulder from time to time.

She didn’t make any fuss once inside, as if she sobered up at the sight of her parents’ furniture in the living-room. Ever the proper little lady, she gave him a blanket and a pillow and she wished him good night, before disappearing into her bedroom.

* * *

The dull pain in his back and the headache slowly building inside his skull awakened him, unless it was the sizzle of something in the frying pan. Had he left gas cooker on, the night before? _Fire…_ Startled by the prospect of the kitchen burning, he sat up hurriedly and realized he wasn’t in his bedroom. The blanket was soft under his fingers but the couch rather uncomfortable for his back. He grunted, trying to adjust his sleepy eyes to the dim light. _Where am I?_

Soon enough, Sansa’s voice resonated from behind him and he remembered he had spent the night on her couch, after their evening at the _Crossroads_. “Are you awake, Sandor? I didn’t want to disturb you while you slept, so I only turned on the kitchen light, but maybe I can draw the curtains now?”

After rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he dangled his feet over the side of the couch and pushed aside the blanket. Sansa had drawn the curtains before disappearing again; when she came back from the small open kitchen, she held out to him a glass of water with an aspirin tablet. He mumbled his thanks and took it, suddenly fascinated by the myriad of tiny bubbles rising to the surface and bursting. The moment he looked up at her, he noticed she held the same glass in her hand, although she didn’t look miserable.

Her damp hair tied back in a messy bun, she looked down at him, smiling. With her light gray tank top, her flowery skater skirt and her bare feet, she looked relaxed. _At long last, I can see her legs._ Long and slender, they didn’t have that weird orange color self-tanning cream gave to many young women’s skin. In his boxing gym, Sandor had seen some girls proud of their fake tan and he knew he didn’t like that. On the contrary, Sansa’s creamy skin was mouth-watering.

“Cheers,” she said playfully, leaning forward. They clinked glasses. “Did you sleep well?”

He nodded, after taking a long gulp. The bitter taste of aspirin made him wince. “What time is it?”

“It’s eight o’clock. If you’re supposed to open the boxing gym this morning, you should take a shower here and have breakfast with me, before going to the gym. Not sure you have enough time to go back to your place.”

Despite his hangover, her suggestion forced a smile out of him. “You planned everything, didn’t you?” Sansa shrugged, then she emptied her glass. “You look just fine for someone who drank a lot last night,” he added, sitting back in the couch.

He expected a response whether it was impish or more serious, but instead she remained silent until a deep blush colored her cheeks. That was when he realized she was gazing at his naked chest. _Fuck. That damn tattoo._ He didn’t move though and even rested his arm on the back of the couch to offer her a better view on his torso. _Don’t fool yourself, girl, you know what the letter ‘S’ means for me._

Sansa shifted from foot to foot now. “Would you like to eat? You must be hungry. I wish I had flour to make some pancakes, but I don’t so I already fried some bacon. Do you want eggs?”

Her chirping, a tell-tale sign of her nervousness, filled Sandor with pride, because even now, after she had been married to a guy who was both handsome - according to the gossips - and wealthy, she was obviously attracted to him, a man who was at odds with common standards of beauty and success.

“Would you feel more comfortable if I put on a shirt?” he inquired, ignoring her question.

“Yes… I mean no. Oh, God… Do as you wish... Do you want eggs?” She sounded hesitating as if she feared there was a double entendre in her words.

Sandor raised to his full height and took a step toward her. “I’d like that, little bird. I’m starving.”

Her blue eyes widened slightly at that. Glancing down at her arms, he noticed the tiny bumps on her skin. _Goosebumps. I’d stake my life on it. Is she scared, cold or aroused? I hope it’s the latter._ She walked back to the small open kitchen, Sandor on her heels.   

He asked if she wanted some help, but as she said no with a graceful smile, he stood there, leaning against a cupboard, watching as she prepared the breakfast. From time to time, she swiveled her head to catch a glimpse at his form and she smiled.

They ate on the counter, as an awkward silence stretched between them. She eventually told him she had to go to the hospital after lunch and asked some random questions about the boxing gym, in a poor attempt to distract herself from the gothic letter on his chest.

He insisted to help her wash the dishes, enjoying every moment spent next to his little bird, then he took a shower. For the rest of the day, his hair and skin would smell of her and he was ready to endure the jokes the kids never failed to make when they found an opportunity.

She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading a book when he came back from the bathroom.

“I’d better go,” he said, trying to suppress the hint of disappointment in his tone.

Slowly, she got up and crossed the room to stop at arm-length of him. “I really had a good time, Sandor.”

“In spite of… in spite of everything?” he muttered, pathetically uncertain. _Can she forgive me for what I told her about her sister?_

“Yes, in spite of that rude student and in spite of your… confessions.” She paused, unease tangible in her attitude, eyes downcast and hands clasped in front of her.

“I had a good time last night, but…”

But was the worst fucking word, in Sandor’s experience: it only promised trouble, suffering and disillusion. Friendzone, in this case. _“I had a good time yesterday, but I’d rather be your friend.” Spit it out, girl._

“But I want a real date,” she added, flushed and nonetheless holding his gaze. “What are you doing on Friday night?”

“Nothing.” She had hardly finished her question that his answer came up. _Don’t show her how desperate you are, Dog,_ he scolded himself. However, he sensed it didn’t matter anymore now that she made it clear: she wanted to see him again. “What do you want to do?” he rasped.

“I don’t know. I’d like to go somewhere quiet where nobody tries to steal your seat.” She wriggled her hands, blushing prettily.

“What about my place?” he heard himself ask.

Her cheeks now aflame, she nodded. “That’s a good idea, I never saw your house. Nor the boxing gym… Should I join you at the boxing gym or at your place?”

 _Wherever you want,_ he told himself. _Fuck, I don’t care if we see each other again in the boxing gym or under a bus shelter._ He didn’t really listened to the rest of the conversation, focused on the idea that today was Wednesday and that waiting until Friday night to see her again seemed like an eternity.

 


	5. Episode 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor turned around to see his little bird, all flustered, averting her eyes and playing with the shoulder strap of her bag in a nervous gesture. Instead of the jeans he had often seen on her lately, she wore a black sleeveless mini dress that reminded him of the 1960’s actresses. Classic, elegant, yet showing her mile-long legs. The white Peter Pan collar made her look innocent, especially when she wrung her hands.  
> “I’m so sorry, Sandor. I didn’t mean-” Eyes downcast, she blushed.

The radio resonated strangely inside the quiet gym. Sandor often indulged in listening to the radio while doing bench presses or pull ups, believing that it cleared his mind and helped him focus. Staying focused was what he fucking needed that night. With Sansa coming over, he had to keep at bay his natural tendencies to screw up dinners and basically ruin his chances with his little bird. Music always helped him forget the sweat that dripped from his forehead, the itching of that damn tag on his tee-shirt or the dull pain in his thigh, but did it prevent his nervousness? _Fuck, no,_ he mused. _Working out is supposed to help me calm down._ That was why he kept a timer next to the exercise bench and made himself lift fast and hard for two minutes; your muscles were supposed to grow more quickly this way, according to experts. Books and fucking specialists didn’t say it, but it also lulled his conscience and made him forget about all the reasons why he should be flustered. _The dinner. The after dinner. The little bird._

No matter the exertion, the details of his dinner with Sansa made him break out into a cold sweat. Dozens of questions about that dinner had haunted him since the moment she had invited herself. Food was his main concern: Sandor cooked for himself, not for other people. If he was being honest, he could say he only cooked not to starve himself to death. The kitchen was a non-descript room in his house, practical, but nothing else. Macaroni and cheese were his culinary crowning achievement. The Elder Brother didn’t complain about macaroni and cheese, but Sansa Stark certainly expected something else.

Remembering how he had made a fool of himself when he had broached the topic of that dinner in the gym, he mentally face-palmed. Still reclining on the exercise bench, he rested the barbell on the bar catcher with a sigh, then he took the towel and dropped it on his face. _Brienne Tarth. I never imagined a simple question could piss her off and make her yell at me._

It was two days ago, at the gym, a bit earlier in the afternoon. Sandor was doing paperwork in his office, the way he always did it, standing behind his desk, when he had spotted the athletic frame of the young woman; he had searched his mind to find an excuse to talk to her. Brienne Tarth was one of the few girls who frequently visited the boxing gym. In Sandor’s mind the girls who bought a member card could only belong in two categories: there were those pretty girls who christened their neon boxing outfit in September, turned on boys and never came back because, all things considered, they preferred tennis or horse riding, and there were warriors, like Brienne. He respected her for that, because she knew exactly what she wanted when she pushed open the doors of the boxing gym: a decent place to work out and to improve her skills.

Being one of the only women in the gym so far - at the request of Barristan Selmy, they would turn the adjoining room in a fitness centre in October - Brienne had become a sort of reference for Sandor and even though he knew most girls didn’t share her interests in boxing, she was one of the few female figures he had in his life. Thus, as he walked to the spot where she was training, jabbing at the heavy bag, he believed she would give him useful advice.

“Hey, want some help?” he offered, when the tall and muscular girl arched an eyebrow at him. “I can hold the heavy bag for you, if you want.”

“I’m good, thanks,” she said curtly, then she jabbed at the heavy bag again. _Fucking Brienne. She’s not making this easy._

Podrick Payne’s arrival, with a bunch of younger members of the gym, provided a welcome distraction after his failed attempt to get Brienne’s attention. At least, that was what he thought before Brienne asked him coldly, wrinkling her freckled nose: “What is it you want, Sandor? You… never talk to me, so I assume there must be a good reason. Did I forget to pay my due?”

“We talk,” he protested clumsily. “From time to time.”

“Oh, do we?” Dropping her gloves to the floor, she took the bottle of water she kept within easy reach. Perplexed, she gulped half of it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand in the most unladylike way. “Spit it out and we’ll both save some time.”

“Alright,” he said. “I have a question for you. When you have dinner with a guy, what kind of meal do you cook?”

Surprised at first, she gaped, unable to speak. Then, as her face slowly turned red, Sandor realized the extent of his tactlessness. “Excuse me?” she hissed, waving her bottle and spilling some water in the process. “What makes you think I would tell you about the guys I date?”

“Look, I don’t want to be indiscreet, it's none of my fucking business,” he explained. “I don’t know if you're dating someone or not, and frankly I don’t give a fuck about it. I’m just asking what kind of meal you would cook, supposing you had a date.”

Her eyes widened like saucers. Meanwhile, Pod had come closer, to check on Brienne. For some reason, those two were inseparable at the gym.

“I see. Just when I thought it couldn’t be more embarrassing, you find a way to piss me off. Are you asking this because I’m the only girl here and you think that having a vagina makes me a gourmet cook?”

“Brienne, don’t…” Pod began, visibly concerned for his friend.

Sandor didn’t know what to say.

“I’ve got news for you, Sandor Clegane. I don’t cook!” Brienne shouted. “I don’t cook, I don’t iron my shirts, and compared to me, you’d look like the angel in the house, but you know what? I don’t give a damn.”

He gaped. Never before had he thought she could bristle with indignation so quickly. “No need to get on your high horse about it, Brienne, I’m just asking.”

“Precisely. You ask me because I’m a woman and that’s offensive.” Exasperated, she ran her fingers through her short, straw-like hair.

Sandor heaved a sigh, knowing well what he was supposed to do if he wanted her to come back to the gym without glaring at him; despite this certainty, he told himself he just needed more time, even though he knew the window of opportunity to apologize was short when people felt humiliated.

“Look,” he finally said. “I’m sorry you took it the wrong way…” Brienne rolled her eyes. “I’ll do whatever you want to prove I don’t believe clichés about women.” With a snort of a laughter, she glanced at Podrick, who considered Sandor with perplexity.

“I don’t want to intrude,” the boy said, “but do you need advice on cooking? Because, if you do, I’d be glad to help.”

“See?” Brienne told Sandor with a sarcastic smile. “Now, you’re speaking to the right person. If you will excuse me, I’ll resume my training, while you boys are talking about recipes.”

When he looked at Pod again, the kid was shifting from foot to foot. “So… you're making dinner?” he asked Sandor after clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t we talk about it in your office?”

Sandor could have sworn Brienne had a smug expression on her face as they retreated to the small office. Some of the gym visitors gave them a curious look as they moved past them, but he shrugged it off and shut the office door behind Podrick. He gestured at a seat and ensconced himself in the swivel chair behind the desk.

“Why don’t you tell me what kind of food this… person likes?” Pod began.

Sandor shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t know.”

“What kind of person is she?”

“I didn’t say it was a she!” Sandor barked.

“You were talking about a date… I guessed you were talking about a woman. But… if it’s a guy, it’s just fine.” Pod’s juvenile features were tensed, reflecting his embarrassment.

He sunk his face in his palm. “It’s a girl, Pod. Dainty. The kind you want to impress.”

Podrick nodded silently, then went on after a pause: “And what kind of food do you like on special occasions?”

“Meat and potato?” he offered.  _Now I’m the one who doesn’t make this easy._

“How much time do you have to cook?” Pod asked, folding his arms.

“That’s the problem. Barristan will close the gym that night, but he won’t show up before 7:00 PM. In the best case scenario. I can’t leave the gym before he’s here.” He remained quiet for a few seconds, before adding: “I guess this is the fucking moment when you admit you can’t help me.”

Silence stretched in the office, interrupted now and then by laughters coming from the gym. In the end, a small smile pulled the corners of Podrick’s lips. “I think I know exactly what you should do. And she’ll be impressed. Slow-roasted leg of lamb,” he announced, proud as a peacock.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sandor hissed. Who did Podrick think he was? A sort of hipster who spent his weekends at the marketplace?

The kid immediately leaned forward, lifting his hands to calm him down. “Don’t freak out about the name. It’s easier than you think. You prepare the leg of lamb the day before, you put it in a casserole dish and you leave it for six hours in the oven. The day you see the girl, you put the casserole dish in the oven for one more hour, while you both have a drink. You serve it with boiled potatoes. She’ll love it and she’ll even ask you where you got the recipe from.”

Oddly enough, Podrick’s proverbial shyness had disappeared and he smiled triumphantly at the end of his speech. His confidence didn’t rub off on Sandor, though. “When you say it’s easy…” he asked, wary as ever.

“You know how to read a recipe, right? You know how to chop onions? I swear it’s easy,” Podrick insisted.

“If it fucking burns in the oven, we’ll still have potatoes to eat… And I’ll hold you responsible for it,” Sandor growled, pointing his finger at him.

Podrick gave him one of these awkward smiles that were his trademark as he pushed himself from his seat and took a step toward the door.

“And one more thing,” Sandor said, stopping the kid in his tracks. “Where can I find some good lemon cakes?” He never paid attention to bakeries and pastry shops but he knew Sansa would blush and smile prettily the moment she’d realized he had not forgotten what her favorite cakes were.

Podrick slowly turned to him, folding his arms again. “Try Hot Pie’s, next to the library. The guy is really strange with his obsession with pastry, but he’s the best. In the restaurant where I work, we only serve his chocolate cakes.”

Two days after this conversation, Sandor admitted Podrick’s advice had saved his life: the leg of lamb looked and smelled nice in the casserole dish, even if it needed one more hour in the oven, the lemon cakes he had bought during lunchtime at Hot Pie’s before dropping them at his place were tantalizing. Brienne would probably laugh at him if she ever learned he had cleaned his house thoroughly the night before, to be sure his dinner with Sansa Stark would not be ruined by some spiderweb. Yet he was growing anxious with each passing hour, wondering if she would enjoy the food, what they would talk about, and how far he was ready to go that night. Fuck me.

At that very moment, the song that was on the radio struck him, not because he knew it, but because he felt like he recognized the singer’s voice. _What the hell is it?_ It wasn’t even his thing. _Where've I heard this guy sing before?_

_Let me be your 'leccy meter and I'll never run out_

_And let me be the portable heater that you'll get cold without_

_I wanna be your setting lotion_

_Hold your hair in deep devotion_

_At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean_

_I wanna be yours_

Then realization dawned on him. _Sansa’s car. The fucking Arctic Monkeys._ He was listening to one of her favorite bands and of course, those fuckers had written a song about a guy who was so madly in love with a girl he’d do anything to get her attention. _Guess who’s acting just like this desperate boy?_

Dropping the towel to the floor, he sat up on the exercise bench. The dull pain in his thigh was still there, reminding him of his bad choices and of the burden of memories he would carry until his last breath. He was in a sweat, his tee-shirt sticking to his damp skin. One more hour hour and he would drive home, set the table and wait for her. If Barristan remembers he promised to come. Leaning forward, Sandor dug his elbows in his thighs and cradled his head. He could have stayed there for a moment, putting himself under pressure, if his phone he kept on the floor, next to him, had not begun to vibrate.

_Incoming call. Sansa Stark,_ the screen announced. He swallowed hard. _Don’t tell me you can’t come. Not after I made a fool of myself with Brienne. Not after I cooked a fucking leg of lamb for you._

“Hey, it’s me.” Her voice was soft as ever, yet it conveyed a sort of hesitation. “I just drove past the boxing gym on my way home and I saw your car on the parking lot.”

“Yes, I’m still stuck at the gym,” he replied tentatively, wondering what she had in mind. “Barristan will arrive soon to close the gym, I hope. Don’t worry about the dinner, it’s under control.” He hardly believed his own words.

“No, no, I’m not worried at all. It’s just that… I could join you at the gym. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m curious, I’d like to visit the place where you spend your days.” Confused, he didn’t know what to say. “So…” she went on. “Do you mind if I join you at the gym? We’ll wait for Barristan together. It’s been ages since I last saw him.”

“Of course. Come whenever you’re ready.” He hung up, before realizing what was going on. _The little bird. Showing up here. Anytime._ At first, he thought of cleaning up his office; there were files and papers everywhere on his desk. Then he swept the gym and wished he could change the look of it: the coat of paint on the walls peeled away by places and its color, a dirty green, was just outmoded. She wouldn’t like that. Perhaps she would smile inside, at the sight of the gym, but there was nothing he could do about it for now. He ran to the office, began to put away some files in the drawers of his desk; he opened the window, convinced the room had a musty smell and finally decided he needed a shower. Sighing, he remembered he didn’t even have spare clothes as he hurried to the locker room.

Shower felt good after lifting weights. Sandor doubted it could alleviate the tension in his shoulders, yet to his great surprise, he relaxed gradually. Closing his eyes, he let the warm water run over his face, wash away the sweat and in the end, the tension that made his back stiff. Standing right under the shower head, he braced himself against the stall wall and stared at his muscled arms and at his six-pack until he cleared his head. At some point, he considered jerking off, but he gave up, without knowing why it felt suddenly wrong; he therefore stayed there, enjoying the warm water on the skin of his back.

When he emerged from the shower, he felt a tad different, as if he had regained some of his confidence long hours of waiting had mangled. He took a towel, dried himself off and put on boxers. As he bent forward to pick up his pants, droplets fell from his hair, leaving traces on the tiled floor. He smiled, remembering his hair was damp too, when he had knocked at her door, before taking her to the _Crossroads._ _Looks like I hardly shake myself like a dog every time I see her._ He snorted at that, then heard the locker room door open. _Strange. Lem usually stays until the closing time… and so does Anguy._ That evening, they were the only people he had spotted in the gym, before he headed to the showers, apart from a bunch of kids who had just arrived at the gym and therefore would not go back to the locker room before an hour or so.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” a tiny voice coming from the doorway said apologetically.

Sandor turned around to see his little bird, all flustered, averting her eyes and playing with the shoulder strap of her bag in a nervous gesture. Instead of the jeans he had often seen on her lately, she wore a black sleeveless mini dress that reminded him of the 1960’s actresses. _Classic, elegant, yet showing her mile-long legs._ The white Peter Pan collar made her look innocent, especially when she wrung her hands.

“I’m so sorry, Sandor. I didn’t mean-” Eyes downcast, she blushed.

“It’s OK,” he reassured her. “Stay here, I’m almost ready,” he added when he noticed her hand on the door knob.

Her sudden arrival and the sight she offered had made him forget he only had his boxers on. While putting on his pants, he decided to take advantage of the situation; his jeans still low on his hips, he grabbed his shirt and closed the distance between them.

Sandor smiled encouragingly. “Won’t you look at me?” he asked. He cupped her chin and made her look at him straight in the eye.

“I feel stupid,” she confessed. “I told myself I shouldn’t call you, it’s always a bad idea when you change plans at the last minute-”

“Shh. It’s OK.” He brushed her jaw, enjoying the softness of her skin and the pink tone her cheeks now had. She had trouble locking eyes with him and she visibly struggled not to focus on his chest. _So she likes it. The muscles, the hair, the tattoo…Even the scars._ It made his head spin. “It doesn’t look stupid. It looks as if you came earlier to come upon me half-naked,” he teased. Sansa opened her pretty mouth to protest, so he added: “I tell you something, little bird. I don’t mind being objectified, as long as you’re the one leering at me.”

Scandalized, she nonetheless laughed at his remark. “You’re incorrigible. I mean it.”

He put on his shirt, glancing at her from time to time and finding it hard not to pin her against the wall.

“Didn’t you see the sign on the door?” he asked her, feeling mischievous. “It says “Men’s locker room”.” He took a few steps toward the spot where he had left his socks and his shoes.

Biting her lip and nervously playing with the shoulder strap of her purse again, she answered: “One of your… friends told me I should just walk in and I… trusted him. I now realize he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Sandor grabbed his things, shoved the dirty towel in the laundry basket and he motioned her out of the locker room. Lem and Anguy observed them with curiosity from the spot where they made some stretching exercises; Sansa informed him that the _man with a bushy brown beard and crooked teeth_ , aka Lem, had encouraged her to walk in the locker room. _Of course the bastard did._ Sweating in his odd-looking yellow t-shirt, Lem locked eyes with Sandor and mimicked the salute, a broad grin on his face. As Barristan had not arrived yet, Sandor led Sansa to his office before they looked around the property. She had seen the boxing ring while crossing the gym to go to the locker room but she wanted to take a close look at it.

Some of the younger boys insisted on fighting in the boxing ring, so that she could see how good it looked with boxers on it. While they flexed their muscles and tried to get her attention, Sandor contemplated her; pretty girls always made an impression on the gyms regular visitors, but said visitors acted differently with Sansa because she was with him. They glanced at her, but they never looked hard at the girl; they strutted about and did their best to impress her, but they didn’t flirt with her. Amazed, Sandor became aware they didn’t seem to judge their age difference nor the fact they formed an unlikely couple. _I suppose I should be grateful._ Was it gratefulness that made his chest constrict?

“So you work out here?” she asked him. Sansa had politely watched the improvised boxing match and even clapped her hands at the end, but she looked like she wasn’t interested in the other members of the gym. And she seemed to act like she wanted to let Sandor know she didn’t care about them.

He shrugged. “I was working out before you called.” _That and agonizing over tonight’s dinner._

“You lift weights?” she inquired, her gaze automatically drawn to his chest. He nodded. “Can you show me?”

At that very moment, one of the kids began to talk about showing her how he could lift a loaded barbell; Anguy anticipated the whole thing and visibly decided the party was over. He put a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Weren’t you supposed to punch the heavy bag, kid?” he told him with a smile, kind yet firm. “The heavy bag is _out there_.” Anguy exchanged a knowing look with Sandor who gave him a curt nod.

The exercise bench where Sandor used to work out was in a corner of the gym; Anguy’s remark had had its effect on everyone, for they all stayed as far from the exercise bench as they could. With its adjustable back seat, its heavy duty bar catcher and its leg developer that felt so comfortable, he often forgot the pain in his thigh, this exercise bench was Sandor’s, and when he was sitting on it, no one messed around.

“So?” she asked, looking suddenly intimidated with her hands behind her back. “This is where you lift weights?”

He mumbled affirmatively, before sitting down on the bench, legs open. Sansa took a step forward, stopping at arm’s length of the leg developer and looking down at him. Reclining on the bench, his spine resting against the stuffed back, he glanced at her. Leaving the exercise bench in haste minutes after her call, he had not removed the weights from the barbell.

“Want me to do a bench press?” he rasped. As she arched an eyebrow, he realized she wasn’t familiar with the technical jargon of bodybuilding.

“Oh, that?” she replied, finally understanding when his fingers curled around the bar above his head. “OK. I’m sure I’d like to see you working out.”

There was this smile playing about her lips that made her fucking adorable. Sandor did as he was told and lifted the barbell slowly, then let it brush his chest once, twice, feeling her gaze on him. A quick glance at her confirmed she bit her bottom lip while contemplating the muscles of his arms. He went on, never sated with the sensation of her eyes on him, until he had a better idea. One deep grunt and the barbell rested on the bar catchers again. Sandor sat up then pushed himself from the bench. “Your turn, now.”

Sansa cringed ever so slightly. “What? Are you kidding me?”

“I’ll help you and I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt. Give me your purse, now.” Gently, he slipped his finger between the soft fabric of her dress and the shoulder strap of her bag; she barely resisted. As he put down the purse, she still hesitated. “Come on, girl. Barristan is not here yet. Let’s have some fun.”

His challenging eyes made her decision; Sansa tugged at the hem of her mini-dress as if to smooth non existent wrinkles and she sat down on the bench, a bit clumsy. As she leaned back, the skirt of her dress skimmed dangerously high above her knees and she blushed, suddenly self-conscious.

“My arms aren’t exactly what you can call “muscled”, in case you didn’t notice,” she warned him.

“It’ll be fine.” Standing next to her head now, Sandor was removing, one by one, the heavy plates he used to work out. Doing bench press for the first time was impressive enough for his little bird: one plate would be fine and it had to be light. _2.5 pounds will be good,_ he mused. Her curious gaze fluttered about the bar catchers, then she gave him a long look filled with apprehension. “I’ll stay next to you all the time,” he promised her.

She nodded at that and when she grabbed the barbell, lifting it from the bar catchers, the sight of his hands on the device, ready to intervene if something was wrong, seemed to encourage her. She frowned, focused on her effort as she stretched her arms to lift the barbell as high as she could.

“Careful, Sansa. Keep your back on the seat”, he whispered. “Now lower the weight to chest level. Slowly… Good.”

She smiled at him triumphantly. “This is one rep,” he announced, dampening her spirits. “Do it again.”

“Are you planning to send me to some boot camp?” she inquired, pushing the barbell once more.

He laughed. “Hell, no. I just wanted to show you it’s not that difficult.”

She soon asked if she could stop before ruining her hair and he helped her put the barbell on the bar catchers again. “Now I know what it feels like to push weights, I’ll never make fun of bodybuilders again,” she said, sitting up and stretching her arms.

“You’re not impressed by muscles.” It was more a question than a statement, for his words inflected at the end of the sentence.

“It depends. Muscles always looked good on you.” With a smile, she extended her hand so that he helped her get on her feet. Her hand felt small and cool in his and she was light as a feather.

Barristan arrived shortly afterwards, grinning at Sansa and hugging her like she was family. When he had asked Barristan if he could come at the gym and close it that night, Sandor had had no choice but to tell him about Sansa. The old man’s noble features had remained motionless during Sandor’s confused explanation, but his blue eyes shone differently afterwards, a sign he wasn’t surprised by the news. Eager not to embarrass Sandor, he had asked dozens of questions about Sansa and what had happen to her since the last time the old man and the girl had met; Sandor had done his best to give him answers.

“It’s good to see you again,” Barristan told Sansa. “After my dismissal, I often wondered what would happen to you. You were so young.”

It was still a delicate topic and Sansa took a step backwards, as if to protect herself from the bad memories his comment involuntarily brought back. _It’s time to go._ Before she said or did something, Sandor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Now that you’re here, Barristan, I guess we can leave.”

“I’m sure we’ll find some time to… talk about the good old days,” she offered, addressing Barristan. “You should come to my place, someday.”

Barristan nodded at that and they left, under the inquisitorial look of the youngsters who haunted the boxing gym on Friday nights.

Out in the parking lot, he watched Sansa as she walked to her car, stunning in her black mini-dress exposing her long legs. Before reaching her car, she glanced at him over her shoulder, probably because she wanted to make sure he was still there, ready to lead her to his house; anyway, that was what he thought at first. Their eyes locked for a second. In her eyes, which deep blue he had not forgotten despite the seven year gap, he detected a hint of mischief.

_Want to play?_ The blue eyes suggested.

_Fuck, I’m ready to play whatever game you have in mind._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Some of you expected to read more about their date: I’ll try to make up for it by posting a long, sweet chapter next time.  
> You can find more information about this fic (including Sandor's recipe of the slow-roasted leg of lamb I'll post tomorrow...) on tumblr: asimplylucia.


	6. Episode 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he would look back on that night afterward, Sandor wouldn’t be able to remember how he got upstairs. He recalled the creaking of the stairs under their weight, her scent and the resoluteness in Sansa’s tone that obsessed him. I want. I don’t want. His little bird had changed and she was giving herself to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the lovely underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter.  
> I feel a bit nervous about this update... Feedback will be very welcome.

Sandor had always loved his small and rather old house, at the edge of town: it was his shelter, his den, a place where no one bothered him. _Nobody will ever break my balls here,_ he had thought the first time he had visited it. And it was true: it was out of the way, his closest neighbors being a bunch of does and some cottontail rabbits. For the first time in his life, there was a place he could call home and he was grateful for that, but as he stepped out of his truck and led Sansa to the entrance door, he had misgivings about his choice. It was old and a bit outdated, a rare example of what people called, with a hint of disdain _a_ _bachelor’s house_. _Maybe she’s going to hate it_ , he mused, inserting the key in the keyhole. _Perhaps we should stay in the living-room._

He told her she could have a seat in the living-room then he headed to the kitchen, remembering the slow-roasted leg of lamb wasn’t ready yet. _And the potatoes aren’t ready either…_ Of course, she decided to follow him to the kitchen; still facing the oven, he shot a glance at her, over his shoulder, clearly embarrassed.

“What is it you cooked?” she asked out of curiosity, her slender frame being an unusual but lovely sight in the all-too familiar surroundings. She was leaning back against the kitchen wall.

When he explained it was leg of lamb, her eyes widened like saucers. She came closer, insisted until he removed the lid of the casserole dish to see what the leg looked like, among caramelized onions and carrots.

“I thought you didn’t cook,” she whispered, almost accusingly.

“I swear I did it myself, Sansa. Pod gave me the idea and even the recipe, but I did it myself.” In case she didn’t believe him, the carrot peel still formed a heap on the table and the paper with the recipe was taped on the fridge door.

Sansa chuckled. “I can see you’ve been cooking here.” She gazed at the sink where some dirty dishes remained and at the table with its heap of carrot peels. The kitchen was the only part of the house he had not cleaned thoroughly the night before, assuming they would stay in the living-room. “You impress me, that’s all. Not all the girls get slow-roasted leg of lamb for their first date.”

“It’s easy,” he rasped.

“With all due false modesty…” she teased him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m impressed... and I’m touched you made a special effort tonight.” Something softened in her gaze at that very moment; suddenly uncomfortable, Sandor averted his eyes and shoved the casserole dish in the oven. She must have felt his hesitation, for she stepped away and watched him put the deep-frozen wedges in the frying pan from the doorway.

Once he was done, he turned to her, disguising his unease in a braggart smile that vanished the moment he heard her ask: “Can you show me around?”

If her shyness had been obvious at the gym, under the kids’ prying eyes, she had gained self-assurance while his doubts became tangible. As luck would have it, she had decided it was her turn to set the pace.

“Of course,” he replied, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He had never been good at showing people around; now that he had told himself repeatedly, she’d find the place awful, his inability to show it in its best light had become a certainty. What made his living-room different from the other ones? What was the point in showing her the hallway?

They nonetheless went to the living-room, Sandor gesturing nonchalantly at the space between the couch and the the table. Looking through the window, Sansa suddenly exclaimed: “You have a terrace?”

Sandor would never call it a terrace. The previous owner had laid some decking on the garden, and that was all. Anyone else would have placed a nice garden table and some chairs on the decking, but Sandor had never found a good reason to do it. He had once bought an old metal folding table and its two chairs at a rummage sale. The furniture needed a good coat of paint, yet he had stored everything in the garage. When there was no one to sit across you, why repaint the table and its chairs?

After glancing at him over her shoulder, Sansa opened the French window and stepped outside. As she explored what she called the terrace, the sound of her heels hitting the decking persuaded him that something had changed. No one ever had tread upon the whitened wood of the terrace; mesmerized, he looked at the high-heeled shoes that produced the unfamiliar sound, then his gaze went up, taking in the ankles, the slender calves and higher, the thighs her dress barely hid. She turned around, surprised he had not joined her yet and gave him an encouraging smile.

“Dawn must be beautiful here,” she said as he closed the distance between them. She was looking at the grove of trees behind his house. “You know what? I couldn’t imagine you living in a different place. When you disappeared, I sometimes told myself you were living in some log cabin, in the North. I don’t know why. This is not a log cabin hidden in the woods, but it’s quiet and it’s beautiful. I like this place.”

He could see her profile as she contemplated the horizon and the already purple sky; the large forehead, her long, curled eyelashes, the straight nose and these full lips he died to kiss. _If there was a table on the terrace,_ he told himself, _I’d make her sit there and I’d kiss her._ It was a reason worth cleaning the rusty table that waited in his garage and repainting it.

At some point, she seemed to realize how late it was already and she turned to him, a smile gracing her lips. “You want to show me the rest of your house?” she suggested, bolder than he had expected her to be.

“There isn’t much to see.”

“Looks like there’s a second floor,” she retorted, craning her neck to look at the upper level of Sandor’s house. He relished the tension that was slowly building between them, even if his contribution to the process had been modest. _She’s doing all the fucking work, it’s not even funny._

With an incline of his head, he motioned her inside, then he led her to the staircase. Just like the decking of the usually deserted terrace, the wooden stairs creaked approvingly under her heels.

“So… the bathroom is here,” Sandor announced with a sigh, opening a door and turning on the light. _Don’t ask me to sound enthusiastic like some shitty real estate agent…_

Before swiveling his head and watching her reaction, he expected her to nod politely at the clean but common bathroom he owned, but to his great surprise, Sansa was gaping. “You have a bathtub?” Almost shoving him to get inside and to have a better look, she went on: “I’d kill for a vintage bathtub like this one.”

Leaning against the doorframe, he shrugged. “I don’t call it vintage, I call it old.” The hint of provocation in his tone made her shake her head slowly, as she still admired the clawfoot tub.

“I bet you never take baths,” she said.

“I don’t have time for baths, girl. Showers are good... especially if there’s some pretty little bird showing up the moment I turn off the water.” Sansa gasped at his remark. “If you like it, go ahead, take a bath.”

Blushing, she let her eyes fall to the tiled floor and shook her head again. “Not tonight.”

_Not tonight. Does that mean something else?_ She moved past Sandor, almost like she would not dare to lock eyes with him, then she waited on the landing while he closed the bathroom door. _This is the same old story: when she’s bold I become spineless and mute; when I regain confidence she’s that shy little bird again._

“Here’s a closet but I won’t show it to you ‘cause I didn’t take the time to clean it up,” he explained. “The other door, well... it’s my bedroom. Do you want to take a look?” He had shoved his hands in his jeans pockets in a casual attitude, although he was anything but relaxed. Her timid nod set his pulse racing; he opened the door for her. Sansa took in the large bed - not unmade, for a change - the sparse furniture and he realized her gaze was drawn to the window.

“May I?” she asked, before crossing the room and stopping by the window, both hands resting on its frame, like a little girl watching outside.

Like minutes before on the terrace, she stayed silent at first, before turning her head and giving him a fleeting look. There was something akin to apprehension in her blue eyes; she glanced at him to make sure he was still there and perhaps because she wondered what he was about to do. They locked eyes and for a split second he felt as if he could read her mind; he could have sworn Sansa had suddenly remembered where she was, that she had just realized what any red-blooded man would think of a girl standing in his bedroom. No matter how seductive she looked with her black mini-dress and her high-heeled Mary-Jane shoes, at that moment, her eyes were those of a little girl.

He was still in the doorway, unable to decide if he should come in or not, if he should join her or stay where he was. His feet glued to the wooden floor, he kept staring at her back when she turned to the window again. All of a sudden, a single question resonated in his mind. _Will she ever come back to this room? And if she crosses the threshold of my bedroom again, will she do it tonight?_ There was something in Sansa’s attitude, in the way her shoulders tensed imperceptibly that told him she shared a part of his interrogations; however, petrified by the notion the slightest change, be it a comment or an gesture, could ruin everything, he didn’t dare move.

* * *

 And suddenly Podrick Payne, with his goofy smile and his coarse features, became his hero.

She liked the leg of lamb, better yet, she kept saying how delicious it was, threatening him, that she would not come back if he didn’t cook the same recipe. He soon teased her when she had a second helping, asking what kind of food they served her at the Quiet Isle General Hospital. Not only had Pod provided him with a recipe that was rather easy and didn’t need much effort, but he had found the perfect idea to blow her mind. He might not have racked his brains about table decoration and such, but she was more than happy with the content of her plate and that was enough for him.

Good food and wine had alleviated some of the tension; after the leg of lamb, he sensed she was ready to discuss sensitive matters they voluntarily ignored most of the time. Settled back in her chair as Sandor came back from the kitchen after clearing the table of the bulky casserole dish, she sipped her wine, eyes sparkling, observing his comings and goings.

“What’s on your mind?” he inquired, her curious expression forcing a smile out of him.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, seemingly embarrassed, then confessed: “I was wondering about the tattoo on your chest.”

He sat down. As he was doing so, she shifted on her seat, swiveling her hips so that her legs weren’t hidden under the table anymore. “So, what kind of question do you have about my tattoo?” he asked with a perfunctory shrug.

“How long are we supposed to play this game, Sandor? The only question I have is very simple and you already know what it is: what does the “S” stands for?”

Resting his elbows on the table in a pathetic attempt to look less nervous than he was, he cleared his throat, but the response didn’t come. Years of loneliness had convinced him he didn’t deserve affection; that certainty, combined with the feeling of rejection he had experienced since his childhood made Sandor unable to speak. _What if she has imagined something else?_ Silence stretched between them, until he chided himself for being so coward. _The truth, tell her the fucking truth._

Almost shaking, he rasped: “Maybe I already knew what question you had in mind, little bird… but be honest: you already _know_ the answer.” _You’re proud of yourself? Answering a question by asking another question, that’s how you envision telling her the truth?_ Exasperated by his own attitude, he gritted his teeth.

Across the table, Sansa took it on the chin. She opened her mouth in disbelief, then she commented in an undertone: “Touché.” She shook her head. “I never thought it would be so difficult to have this conversation with you.”

Remorse slowly crept in Sandor’s mind. “S for Sansa,” he whispered, his heartbeat loud in his ears. _The truth. The fucking, liberating truth. Shouldn’t I feel different now that I said it?_

“Why?” she asked. “I mean, you got this tattoo done after you left… You were on the run, probably hundreds of miles away from me…

Where to begin? He didn’t have a fucking clue. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and decided to be honest with her. “I was drunk that night…” When he raised his eyes, eager to find some encouragement, her shocked expression made him realized he might have ruined everything. _Asshole. You don’t tell the girl you love you got her initial tattooed on your chest when you were plastered._

“Drunk?” she repeated, incredulous. In her tone, the slightest trace of empathy had disappeared. “You were drunk, that night too?” Crossing her arms about her chest, she suppressed a nervous laughter. “Isn’t it ironic?”

_What the hell is she talking about?_ Brow furrowed, Sandor swallowed hard and waited for the fit of anger he thought he deserved.

“You’re always drunk when… when it’s important,” she stammered, overcome by frustration. She kept shaking her head slowly, as if the constant movement somehow helped her. “When you shouldn’t. You were drunk that night too, when you came to me and offered to take me with you.” High-pitched, her voice revealed she was on the verge of tears now; he extended his arm to brush her forearm but she leaned back in her chair, glaring at him. “Did you offer me your help for the same reason you got this tattoo, because you were drunk?”

He could have shouted at her. He could have stood up abruptly and threatened her until she ran away from his place, swearing she’d never come back. Seven years before, that was exactly what he would have done because there was no rational explanation to his attitude, in both cases. Knowing he was a different person, someone who had learned how to tame the beast inside him made him realize he had come a long way. Sandor stared at her, wondering if she would see in his gray eyes all the longing his words couldn’t express.

“The night I left the Lannisters, when I threatened you - I’ll never forgive myself for doing that - it wasn’t alcohol that made me point a gun at you. It was anger. That and blood lust, probably.”

Silent, she hung on his every words, rage slowly giving way to sheer emotion; unshed tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, yet she seemed determined to resist. Not a single tear rolled down her cheeks.

“I can’t blame alcohol for the foolish decisions I took,” he went on. “Quite the contrary. Being drunk made me able to do things you can call foolish… but these things, I really wanted them to happen, sober or not. You were right to refuse, but I really wanted you to come with me, when I left. And that tattoo with your name, as silly as it is, I wanted it so badly…” He stopped short from saying more, not knowing where that idea would led him.

“So how did it happen?” she asked. Her tone had softened, but she still wanted further explanation.

He averted his eyes, hesitating for a few seconds, then said: “I was on the lam. It was before I met your sister. Anyway… I realized it was my fucking birthday and I got drunk. Not that I ever used to celebrate my birthday, I wasn’t in the mood for celebration, I just wanted to forget. Next thing I remember is… coming to my senses in that shitty tattoo parlor. The guy told me I had asked him to tattoo the five letters of your name between my chest and my lower belly… vertically. Like a huge scar.”

He paused, drained his glass of wine. “I stopped him as he was starting to tattoo the first “A” of Sansa. There’s still some ink under the “S”, like some weird mole.”

Across the table, Sansa hugged herself as if she was cold. She heaved a sigh, then she asked: “Do you regret it?”

“No. I know it looks weird, because I’m kind of hairy, but I like it. I think the tattoo artist had to shave my chest before starting. I don’t recall that either.” A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. “Are you still mad at me?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I like it too.”

After that, they both needed calm and the lemon cakes he had bought at Hot Pie’s seemed the perfect conclusion to their dinner. Although she kept saying it was delicious and he had to give her the address, Sandor felt like he had got his fingers burnt. Her tone was merry now and she smiled, but he wondered if she could forgive him. Was this cheerfulness sincere or just a way not to spoil the atmosphere any further? Pushing aside his plate, his elbows rooted to the table and his chin resting on his folded hands, he observed her as she ate the lemon cake.

They talked again, careful to avoid delicate issues, this time. She gave him news from her uncle and from Rickon, she said how much she loved working with the Elder Brother, even though it was sometimes difficult. The conversation wound down, yet he felt like they both wanted it to last a little longer, although silences grew longer. _Fuck, I want her to stay._ He was sure about it, as he was sure they both hesitated, ignoring what to do next. In the end, she got on her feet and said she would help him do the dishes.

“And I won’t take no for an answer,” she insisted, smiling.

Did she want to prove by that smile she wasn’t mad at him anymore? He followed her to the kitchen, trying to etch in his memory all the details he could, from the bun that brought out her long and slender neck to that curious silvery zipper that went down her spine on the back of her dress: it made his mind wander where it probably shouldn’t. Sandor admitted he wasn’t ready to let her go and the sight of dishes in the sink somewhat reassured him: they would be for a while. Sansa looked for a tea towel; in the meantime, he rolled up his sleeves and tied his hair back. Behind him, he heard her laugh and turned around; at that moment, he was next to the sink, ready to turn on the faucet.

“What?” he asked. As she didn’t answer at first, blushing slightly, and as she urged him to begin washing the dishes, he insisted. “What’s going on?” he said, his voice drowned out by the sound of water filling the sink. “What are you laughing at?”

Eyes downcast, she stayed by his side, biting her bottom lip as if she feared to say something inappropriate. Her scent, floral and intoxicating, tickled his nostrils. He tried not to look at her breasts whenever he glanced at her, but the notion she would be gone soon made him almost desperate and less careful with each passing moment.

“I was-” she began. “No, it’s silly. Please go on.”

Sandor docilely took the glasses and washed them, still gazing at her. He handed out the first glass to her, but didn’t let it go. “Tell me what it is,” he urged her. “Now.”

“What are you doing, Sandor? It was _nothing_ , really.” They stared at each other for a long while, as her cheeks reddened. In the end, she sighed and gave in. “OK, I think I drank too much. Promise me you’re not going to laugh or something. I’m serious, Sandor.”

He had all the time he needed to imagine something both embarrassing and hilarious. “I promise,” he said, suppressing a smile.

Sansa took a sharp intake of breath and explained, turning crimson: “When I saw you rolling up your sleeves, I told myself I was very lucky to have in my life, this tall, muscled man who cooks for me even though he claims he can’t and who does the dishes with me.” She frowned, as if expecting a reaction that didn’t come.

“That’s all?” he inquired.

“I told you it was silly.” Ill-at-ease, she wiped the glass carefully, clearly pretending to focus on the task she had been assigned to rather than on him.

Silence was uncomfortable for Sandor as well. “I thought you preferred handsome men,” he commented, thinking out loud.

She chuckled: “You know what song that reminds me of?” Disguising her unease behind cultural references had always been one of her favorite tricks. _At fifteen, it was_ Greensleaves _and some shitty pop songs._ _What is it, now?_

“ _Chelsea Hotel,_ by Leonard Cohen,” she added.

Before he could realize his little bird was referring to a singer that had nothing to do with the idols of her teenage years and to a song that mentioned a sexual encounter in a now decrepit hotel of New York, on top of that, she was beaming at him and she began to sing:

_“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel_

_You were famous, your heart was a legend._

_You told me again you preferred handsome men_

_But for me you would make an exception.”_

Sandor didn’t dare say anything afterward, because it was so unexpected and so strange to hear her voice in his kitchen he was in awe.

“Say something,” she begged, her nervous grin proving, if necessary, how flustered she was.

Weak at the knees, Sandor rasped: “Make an exception.”

She gave him a long look, her blue eyes widening in surprise, and the tea towel she held landed on the steel rim of the sink. Then, very slowly, her fingers curled around his wrist. It was the signal, the one he had been waiting a very long time for. His hands still wet after his attempt at doing the dishes, he grabbed her hips with a sense of urgency that bewildered him. He didn’t know what he was doing and in all likelihood, she didn’t know either, for she craned her neck and gazed at him silently. They both listened to each other’s breathing before he ducked his head and kissed her.

Her lips, soft and still tasting of sugar, weren’t enough though; pressing and demanding, he found a short relief when Sansa opened her mouth for him and kissed him back with a feverishness he had never suspected in her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, she seemed to make a point of answering his kisses and teasing his tongue in return. One of his hands had already traveled up her ribs and kneaded her breast while her fingers wandered on the back of his neck. She couldn’t suppress a moan when his mouth left hers to trail down her throat; as he couldn’t stay with his shoulders hunched any longer, he lifted her body in his arms until she sat on top of the table. The moment she wrapped her legs around his middle, he took it as an encouragement and he resumed his kisses. No matter how intimidating the grunt deep in his chest sounded, Sansa clutched to him.

He was hard now, and she couldn’t ignore it. By the way she pressed herself against him, he could tell her desire matched his, yet he needed her to express it clearly. _Because this is too fucking good to be true._ He stopped kissing her, out of breath, hoping she would understand and confirm she wanted this as much as him. Her chest heaving, Sansa tried to catch her breath and said nothing; her eyes avoided him and it felt unfair because they had been so close before. His hands, still on her ribcage, fell to his sides. Did that gesture rouse her from the haze she was in after their kiss? Sansa raised her eyes all of a sudden and took in his confused expression.

“I don’t want to do it here,” she whispered. Under the anxiousness her words conveyed, she sounded rather determined. “I want to go upstairs. In your bedroom.”

He nodded. “Of course we won’t do it here.” He took a step back, so that she could reach her feet to the floor.

When he would look back on that night afterward, Sandor wouldn’t be able to remember how he got upstairs. He recalled the creaking of the stairs under their weight, her scent and the resoluteness in Sansa’s tone that obsessed him. _I want. I don’t want._ His little bird had changed and she was giving herself to him.

Even if they had hurried in the staircase, even if it took only moments to go upstairs, keeping his hands away from Sansa now that they had wandered on her breasts and felt - briefly - the soft skin of her thighs, was a torture. He pinned her against the wall just before they reached his bedroom door; again they kissed and this time he drew her leg so that it rested on his hipbone. Carrying her inside, feeling her legs around his waist and her hesitation when he would stop by the bed... These things were exactly what he wanted. One hand holding the small of her back and the other one under her buttocks, he lifted her. Gentle yet firm, Sansa stopped him by pressing her palms against his chest.

“But your leg…?” she asked with a hint of concern when she understood what he was doing.

That reminder he had been wounded and he still limped along was unbearable, especially at that moment. “I’m not a cripple,” he retorted almost fiercely. She didn’t find anything to answer to that and she snaked her arms around his neck, almost apologetical. As he opened the door clumsily because of his precious cargo, then carried her across his bedroom, she held his gaze. With a grunt, he put her down on the mattress, where she quickly removed her shoes and got on her knees, opening her arms and inviting him to join her.

Sandor mirrored her attitude, climbing on the bed and sitting on his haunches before covering her mouth with his again. As their kiss deepened, he let his hand explore the curve of her hip and further, the side of her leg until he found the hem of her dress. A tiny moan escaped her lips when his fingers slipped under the dark fabric and went up, to the junction of her thighs. Deep down, Sandor wanted to see what she looked like with only her bra and panties; he could have stripped her from her dress but he was growing impatient and besides, he wanted to know if she was wet. Under the pad of his forefinger, the feel of cotton was a surprise. The few women whom he had seen in undergarments lately all wore lace panties - cheap lace looking even cheaper because most of these women were fond of garish colors - and the notion Sansa now made herself conspicuous after years mimicking other women - like Cersei and that bitch named Margaery Tyrell - pleased him instantly.

The soft fabric wasn’t as plain as he had imagined though - there was something embroidered on it, something that would remain mysterious as long as his fingers were his only way to explore her panties. The moment his hand unhesitatingly rubbed between her legs, he found the fabric soaked with wetness; his satisfied grunt echoed back to the whimpering sound his touch elicited. He couldn’t wait anymore and his hands left her lower belly to reach behind her back, unzipping her dress. She didn’t protest and did her best to help him, clumsy and feverish: he saw a flash of white as she removed her dress, pulling it over her head, and then she was facing him again, in her bra and panties.

She kissed him eagerly, without giving him a chance to contemplate her but he broke their kiss and gently made her step back. “Let me have a look at you,” he rasped.

With that mix of shyness and reluctance that drove him mad, she obeyed and let him study her as she was kneeling in the middle of his bed. _Broderie anglaise,_ he mused, gazing at the bra and panties she wore. Sandor didn’t know shit about fashion, but it was one of the few things his mother had taught him before her untimely death: the difference between lace and broderie anglaise. On the white fabric, round patterns formed by embroidery invited him to run callous fingers on it. By places, the tiny holes in the fabric allowed him to see the ivory of her skin; he noticed the rise and fall of her chest, a tell-tale sign of her nervousness and he found himself mesmerized by the sight of her round breasts, as if it was the first time he saw a girl in underwear. If her white, simple yet elegant panties looked almost virginal, the way her back arched was provocative, and perhaps that contrast was what stirred him.

Visibly ill-at-ease, Sansa reached behind her head to remove the hairpins that held her bun; as she did, keeping her eyes downcast, he couldn’t help staring at her hard nipples showing through the fabric. When the dull brown hair flowed down her shoulders, she paused, biting her lip. Taking advantage of her hesitation, Sandor pulled her close, ready to slide down the strap of her bra, but once more, she pressed her small hands against his chest.

“My turn,” she whispered, yanking at the fabric of his tee-shirt.

He obliged her, letting her remove his tee-shirt, then unbuckle his belt. To take off his pants, shoes and socks, he got on his feet, feeling her blue eyes on him. His jeans formed a heap, not very far from her dress that had landed on the wooden floor. Wearing only his boxers now, he climbed on the bed, facing her again. It was her turn to appraise his body and by the way her eyes roamed over him, he knew she liked what she saw. Her small hands on his shoulders, she drank in his muscled chest, his six-pack and further down the bulge in his boxers. His cock had hardened when they had kissed downstairs and the kind of activity they had indulged in afterwards had made him hard as rock.

“Can’t hide it,” he chuckled.

He expected her to blush or to roll her eyes but she surprised him beyond words by fleetingly locking eyes with him, as if she wanted his consent. Then, her hand tentatively stroked his hard cock through the fabric of his boxers and all Sandor could do was curse under her delicate touch. His head lolled back before the fingers of her other hand brushed the nape of his neck, inviting him to look down at her again. They kissed, Sansa’s hand still moving up and down his member until a grunt deep in his throat almost startled her.

Sandor froze, his lips hovering over her mouth; he brushed aside a lock of brown hair that hid her face and whispered: “Lie down”. With his gravelly voice, it probably sounded more like a command, but she nodded all the same and complied. The sight of Sansa Stark wearing only a brassiere and panties, lying in his bed, seemed unreal and he had to look down at her for long seconds to realize it wasn’t a fucking dream. He could have pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t a fantasy induced by alcohol but instead, he lied down next to her and rolled on his side to trace the curve of her shoulder. Touching. He needed to touch her to convince himself she was real.

She cupped his burnt cheek and they kissed once more; as he was almost on top of her, he realized she shuddered underneath him, anticipating what was next. _Fuck. Am I so intimidating?_ At some point, he wondered if she really wanted this, but his mouth nonetheless made his way down her neck then to her breasts. Her moaning, when he reached the top of her breasts encouraged him somehow and he went on planting unhurried kisses here and there, to tease her. Sansa made him pause to unhook her bra and when he saw her naked to the waist, lying back in the middle of the bed, his heart skipped a beat. She observed him with curiosity, her cheeks reddening and swallowing hard.

“Told you your tits are bigger now,” he said in jest, assuming this reference to their meeting in the elevator might alleviate some of the tension. She grinned.

Taking his time, he traced the outline of her round breast, then brushed the sensitive skin of her nipple, before locking eyes with her. A mere nod from her and his mouth avidly covered it, eliciting louder moans; her skin smelled of almond milk. After a short moment he stopped because he wanted to see how she reacted at that. Propping himself on his elbow, he gave her an inquiring look; brow furrowed, Sansa seemed disconcerted - and perhaps a bit disappointed now that his ministrations had ceased.

“Go on,” she begged.

So he went on. Licking, sucking, nibbling at her until her delicate pink of her skin had turned darker. Until she arched her back wantonly and whispered his name. He turned his attention to her other breast, settling himself between her legs, but he needed more. When he stopped, he sat on his haunches and looked down at her. He’d never get used to that brown hair she had now, but the rest was perfect as it was: she was slender, with long legs he wanted to feel wrapped around his middle; her round breasts were enough to make his mouth water. In her eyes, he read desire, although it didn’t make much sense. Sandor tried to imagine what these blue eyes saw as they observed each other, panting: a man in his thirties, disfigured, with long dark hair tied at the back of his head. Not to mention that stupid, lustful look. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem shocked or disgusted; on the contrary, she licked her lips. _She must be mad._

For fear that she might change her mind, he leaned forward ever so slightly and placed both hands on her hips, his thumbs slipping under the fabric of her panties, showing he wanted her to take them off. If he was being honest, he didn’t know if he could wait any longer before taking her. Although he sensed her hesitation for a split second, she shifted and helped him remove that last piece of clothe. When it was done, Sansa opened her mouth as if she was ready to say something important, then she shook her head.

“What is it?” Sandor tried to keep at bay his desire for her. If she wasn’t ready, well, too bad for him.

“I- I had a one-night stand, after I broke up with Harry,” she said, ashamed.

“So what?” Who was Sandor to judge her if she had fucked some other guy? He hated the notion she had been with someone else, yet he couldn’t blame her.

The way she squeezed her eyes shut made him fear the worst. “It was last year. I haven't had sex since then.”

Dumbstruck, he looked at her for long seconds; she was lying back on the mattress, naked, fanning her hair out across the pillow. As silence stretched because he couldn’t find the right words, her unease became more and more visible. The way her blue eyes pierced through him, waiting for his reaction, almost hurt Sandor: somehow, with her insistent gaze and her quavering lips, she was begging him not to laugh at her. She wanted him to take care of her: she squirmed, hesitating, then she reached out to touch the burns on his arm.

“It’s OK. I’ll be gentle,” he promised. _Fuck._ How a girl like Sansa Stark could remain without a boyfriend or a fiancé during a whole year was a mystery. _And how am I supposed to keep this bloody promise now?_

Lying on his side and facing her, he resumed his kisses until her muscles relaxed under his touch. In the end, locking eyes with him, she guided his hand to her clit. Her determination as she took his large hand in hers, showing him what she wanted, made him realize how crucial this seven years gap had been for both of them; none of them was ready and mature enough for this when he had left the Lannisters. Their relationship would have been a failure: she didn’t know what she wanted at that time, and although protecting her was all he had in mind, he would have hurt her beyond repair. _Why is it that the worst decision I made, is also the best? I failed her the day I left her out there, but at the same time, by running away, I made sure I’d never hurt the little bird._

Sansa was a grown woman now, knowing what she wanted and how. As he rubbed her clit, mesmerized by the look of pleasure on her face, he tried to adjust the pace and pressure his fingers applied. Secretly hoping that he could unravel a sort of mystery by boring into her blue eyes, he was slightly disappointed when she closed her eyelids. She moaned, threw her head back in the most provocative way and she nodded eagerly when his finger brushed her opening. Realizing she loved what he was doing to her and that she actually needed more wiped away any trace of frustration.

“Are you wet for me?” he teased, forcing a grin out of her.

Another nod from the brown-haired goddess lying on his bed made his cock twitch. _Dripping wet. She’s dripping wet and that’s because of me._ She was incredibly tight and Sandor decided he would take his time, no matter how badly he wanted her. He couldn’t remember being so attentive to any other woman, but it was true, they didn’t really matter. With them, sex was a primal need he wanted to satisfy, and nothing else. Tonight, it was different. In and out, his finger explored her slowly at first, then faster once she started bucking her hips against his hand. If at first she lifted her head from the pillow to kiss him or to nibble at his collarbone - an attempt to share some of the pleasure she experienced with him, Sandor told himself - she soon gave up; forgetting her shyness and her apprehension, she became more wanton with every thrust. She stopped him by circling his wrist with both hands; he docilely withdrew his hand, giving her a quizzical look. Rolling on her side to face him, she slipped her fingers under the waistband of his boxers.

“You know how to make yourself understood, girl,” he rasped.

Was it Sansa or he who took off the boxers? He wouldn’t remember the day after and he wouldn’t give a fuck about it. All that mattered now was the glorious sight of his little bird, naked and blushing on the mattress while he took a condom in the bedside table. Apprehension had come back when she had seen his cock, yet she didn’t utter a single word and she lay back. Once he was ready, he positioned himself between her open legs and asked for her assent one last time; a long, passionate kiss was the only answer he got from her. Lying on top of her, he rubbed the head of his cock against her opening, then he pushed his hips.

_Tight. Warm._ Afterwards, these were the two sensations he would recall. The time stood still as Sandor realized he was inside her. _Why does it feel so fucking good?_ However, he immediately understood he’d have to restrain himself.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, concerned. Her eyes shone strangely and he feared she was about to cry.

“No.” She might be lying but he would never dare ask her. _Not on my fucking life._ Another thrust felt so bloody perfect he grunted. She clutched to him, digging her nails in his biceps. _It’s painful. I’m hurting her._

No matter how difficult and frustrating it was, he slowed down until he felt her bucking her hips against his. He might have hurt her, but she wanted this to happen and she was too stubborn to give up easily. Shifting, he slipped a hand under her buttocks and kneaded her ass cheek; a timid moan of pleasure escaped her lips as he drew her bent leg higher. “Now it’s good,” she whispered in his ear: a belated confession that it had been uncomfortable before. His cock stiffened inside her; there was nothing like the sensation he felt, as he pleasured her.

Sandor went on, focusing on her reactions, haphazardly planting kisses on her face and throat, receiving her own marks of affection with a mix of amazement and joy and finally thrusting harder once she moaned shamelessly. Although he knew he couldn’t keep this pace much longer, he did his best to keep in control. The moment her nails dug painfully in his flesh, he realized she was about to come - _she’s close,_ he thought, a smug smile gracing his lips - then her inner walls clenched around his cock, therefore confirming his intuition. Forgetting all sense of restraint while she whimpered and arched her back underneath him, he fucked her like he had always wanted to: hard and with a sort of frenzy that would only dissolve in their climax. When his own release came, he felt tiny hands on both sides of his face; she was caressing his scars and his good cheek, and when he collapsed on top of her, far from protesting, she wrapped tentative arms around him.

In next couple of minutes, Sandor was in a sort of haze; after a quick walk to the bathroom, to get rid of the now useless condom, he slumped down on the bed and she snuggled up to him. He couldn’t fathom what had happened. _I just fucked Sansa Stark. I did it because she wanted me to and she came. The little bird came._

“It was good,” she stated, briefly locking eyes with him, in case he still had doubts.

_She’s no sucker._ Sandor might pretend everything was alright, with his hand behind his head and his perfunctory smile, she knew exactly what he was thinking and that certainty puzzled him. Satisfied by his nod, she rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Listening to her breathing as it became more and more steady, he thought he would close his eyes too, but he couldn’t get to sleep. _How am I fucking supposed to sleep after that?_ He tried to remember every detail of the night until they ended up in this bed: he couldn’t. He tried to find a meaning to all the things that had occurred before, even thinking back on their first conversations at the Lannisters’, as if these events had led them to that very moment. _Nonsense. Things happen. Shit happens. Good things too. Good things even happen to old scarred dogs, it seems._

When Sansa rolled on her back, he seized the opportunity to draw the covers to her chin, he turned off the lights and he got on his feet. Not that he wanted to go very far, but Sandor felt like he needed to have hindsight; he didn’t take the trouble to put on clothes and he limped to the window. His eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness after a while and he spotted an owl probably chasing mice, outside. Everything was quiet now and the faint sounds coming from his bed, when Sansa sighed or mumbled something in her sleep, emphasized his impression.

_It can’t be true._ Naked, he stood where Sansa had been earlier that night, looking through the window. There was tension in the air at that moment, when she had glanced at him over her shoulder, across the room. Carefully, he turned around to look at the form lying in his bed, half-hidden by the covers. _I fucked her,_ he told himself. Nothing happened in the silent bedroom. _I banged her. I had sex with her._ Sansa would probably yell at him if she could hear his thoughts, yet he felt that repeating those words, as crude as they were, was the only way he could accept what had just happened. _I’ve been waiting for so long I can’t realize it’s true._

As he stood there, blurred memories of his first time washed over him. He was very young at that time and he had drank a lot before, so the details of that night had faded. However, there was one thing Sandor remembered very well: at dawn, when he had walked away, leaving the young woman who had taken his virginity, he didn’t feel anything. The night was warm and he heard the chirping of crickets somewhere; his head reeled, making the street lamps threatening, but there was nothing else to say. If he was being honest, that night had left him with a void inside him; he knew he should have felt different because he was a man now, yet as he drove back to the Lannisters’ mansion, everything was so quiet inside him he had realized how unmoved he was. Unmoved and hardened. The other people were right when they insinuated he was a monster: his reaction after his first time - or lack, thereof - proved it once more.

In comparison with that night, some twenty years ago, Sandor was now discombobulated. He couldn’t understand why he felt that constriction in his chest nor why he couldn’t take his eyes off of the girl lying in his bed, but the feeling was there, strong and persistent. His cock had gone soft and Sansa had fallen asleep, leaving him alone with his shitty rumination about his first time and that weird feeling in his chest; he had nonetheless fucked her. Come the morning, he would see in the mirror the traces her nails had left on his biceps and on his back. Amused, he run the pad of his thumb on his upper arm; he suppressed a gasp when he found the spot where she had dug her nails in his skin. _She’s got claws, now._ Sandor smiled at that; he seldom watched his reflection in the mirror with satisfaction, but the morning after he would take his time to contemplate those traces and he would be pleased with himself.

As Sansa rolled over in bed, he feared that she might woke up. He wasn’t sure where this fear came from nor why it would be bad news if something roused her from sleep. All this was unfamiliar and the slightest change disturbed him. _So what now?_ Head bouncing against the window frame behind him, Sandor tried to imagine what would happen the morning after and the days to come.

He would cook breakfast for her - with the meager contents of his fridge - and ask her if she had plans for dinner. With a bit of luck, they would see each other and maybe they’d spend the night together. _I have to find someone to close the gym when I can’t,_ he mused. _I really have to._ Deep down, he knew he’d have to change his routine if he wanted this to work, but what was this? _Fuck, what do we have? Is it a relationship already?_ He swallowed hard.

For years, he had thought he’d never see her again. When he indulged himself in daydreaming, he saw their night together as a completion, an end per se: never had he thought it could be the beginning of something. Swamped by events: that was how he would describe the current situation. _I longed for her, I wished this would finally happen… but I thought it was a fantasy. I never readied myself. I had that dream but I had lost hope. I’m not ready. Who’s ready to fulfill one’s dream the moment it comes true?_

A long time ago, the man he used to be would have laughed at that and run away; a lot of water had flowed under the bridge though, and he wasn’t that man anymore. Sandor walked silently to the bed, careful not to make the wooden floor creak under his weight. He stopped next to the bed, observing Sansa. As he had never found a good reason to buy curtains, the moonlight caressed the covers and her cheekbone. She was lying on her side, her back to him, her shoulder moving ever so slightly with each breath she took. A smile pulled the corners of his lips. He climbed on the bed with a wealth of precaution and he crawled in between the sheets. Mimicking her attitude, he lied on his side; he positioned himself right behind her. Sansa didn’t move when his arm wrapped her waist, nor when he kissed the back of her head, wishing this kiss was just the first one of a long, very long series.

* * *

The roar of the engine outside woke him up with a start. He instantly rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to remember what had happened. Oddly enough, the sensation in his head reminded him of a hangover, for it took him a while before he realized why everything felt so different. When he extended his arm, he reached out to find an empty space beside him. _Where is she ?_ He turned on the light, unnecessarily, because the first rays of dawn already pierced the darkness. _Gone, she's gone._ He couldn't believe it.

As he got on his feet hurriedly, he felt a sharp pain in his thigh – he gritted his teeth, uttered a curse and grabbed his boxers. _No time to complain._ Against the Elder Brother's recommendations, he hurtled down the stairs and hobbled along to the entrance door. The cold air outside surprised him when he pulled open the door, leaving it swinging back and forth. Sansa’s car had disappeared.

She was gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find more info about the things that inspire me on my tumblr: asimplylucia.


	7. Episode 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how badly he wanted her, nor how he was relieved to see her in flesh and bone after imagining she was gone forever, he couldn’t just open his arms and enjoy the moment. "And in the end, you're on your own." That straightforward and simplistic sentence was his motto after his father’s death, after he had learned the hard way people could vanish into thin air, or die, or simply disappoint him. He had went through so many things with these simple words as a talisman, it was difficult to just get rid of it and to pretend he was ready to love someone, although he had never been loved. He gritted his teeth for fear of bursting into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Underthenorthernlights patiently beta read this chapter.
> 
> I wrote this as a Christmas gift for the wonderful people who read this story... I hope you'll all enjoy it!

At 9:00 AM, when he opened the gym, his heavy footsteps resonated ominously in the deserted building, echoing the void inside him.

Everything would sound familiar that day, be it the bragging of the kids who came there for lunch, the repeated complaint of that regular visitor about the showers or the noise made by the workers behind the wall of the gym, in what would be soon a fitness center. The blessed sounds of routine. No phone calls, no deceptive compliments about his cooking, his house, his muscles. _I dreamed a dream and now it’s time to wake up. Lucky for me I didn’t get used to it._

The affection he thought he had seen in her eyes, that silvery laughter of hers, the softness of her skin… Hardly had he enjoyed all these things, and then they had been taken away from him. How was it that it affected him so much then; that going back to his old routine seemed insufferable?

He buried himself into paperwork to try to forget it and no one disturbed him until lunch time. At that moment, the ruckus in the gym, next to the locker room, drew his attention; he gritted his teeth, tried to ignore it but how the hell could he focus on the summary of accounts the bank had sent him with the commotion outside his office? _Fucking high school boys…_ He decided to put a definitive end to whatever they were doing; the swivel chair protested under his weight as he stood up and strode to the door, careless of the sharp pain in his thigh. The laughters stopped abruptly as he stepped in the hallway: his lips drew back from his teeth in a silent snarl while he took in the frightened looks of three high school kids who came there every day. Whether they had been boasting about their latest conquests or messing around, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew that whatever they did, cell phones in hand and guilty looks on their faces, it disturbed his work and it reminded him that outside, people lived their life as if nothing had happened. As one of the three boys looked more and more like a deer in the headlights, he stepped forward.

“What the hell are you doing?” he boomed.

“Hey, Sandor!” one of them mumbled by way of apology. “We- We were just, you know, going to the locker room-”

If the kid thought he could coax him with his _“Hey, Sandor!”_ and his bullshit, he was sorely mistaken. He cut him off: “Go to the fucking locker room, then.”

“What’s up, man?” somebody asked behind him. The fact the new comer couldn’t see Sandor’s face, as he was glaring at the high school kids probably explained his cheerful tone. Sandor spun on his heels slowly, until he recognized Lem wearing one of his ugly yellow T-shirts; he didn’t answer and his deep frown silenced Lem too. The man moved past him with a look that said _“What the fuck is wrong with you?”_. Meanwhile, the kids had gathered their things and cleared off, most likely hurrying to the locker room. It was stupid and even childish of him, to overreact because there was some noise in the gym or to ignore someone’s greeting, like he had just done. _But I can’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand. Nobody can understand._ The realization frustrated him even more and he went back to his office, head hanging, lost in thought.

At that moment, Sandor told himself he should have taken some leftovers from last night for lunch: there was enough leg of lamb in his fridge to feed the kids who did bench presses or jumped rope there. He had no appetite for it though; the delicious meat would end up in some corner of his property and feed some stray dog instead.

Sandor dragged his feet to the food truck from habit and chose a sandwich at random, then he came back to the gym, barely answered to the regular visitors who waved at him and he locked himself in his office again.

A knock on the door of his office startled him; it was almost 4:00 PM, according to the sunburst wall clock. Sandor grunted and whoever was behind the door took it for _“Come in”_.

Podrick’s goofy smile would have comforted him, at another time. The kid’s face appeared in the doorway; his fingers gripped the door frame showing he still hesitated before stepping in.

“Hey, what’s up?” Pod asked.

Sandor shrugged, making a tremendous effort not to throw the paperweight at him, because he now associated Pod with the slow-roasted leg of lamb and thus with his own failure. _I wasn’t able to make her stay._

He did a rather good job at hiding his frustration because Pod apparently didn’t understand how pissed off he was; the kid came in and asked with a knowing smile: “No, no, I gave you that recipe, you have to tell me at least whether she liked it or not. I mean, I _know_ there’s no way she didn’t like it, but you have to tell me _how much_ she liked it.”

“She loved it,” Sandor answered grimly after a short silence. “That and the fucking lemon cakes I ordered at Hot Pie’s, following your advice. But it doesn’t matter now.”

Pod gawked at him. “What- What’s wrong?” A mirthless laugh escaped Sandor’s lips, while Pod’s eyes widened like saucers. “Hey, what happened?” The kid sounded concerned now and it only made Sandor laugh harder because for the first time of his life someone asked him about his date and he had nothing to say except that she was gone. _This is so ironic: I finally have a date and I finally have people around me I almost see as friends and I can’t tell them about it unless I admit I’m a fucking loser._

“Is it why you locked yourself in here?” Pod asked, once Sandor’s somewhat creepy laughter died away. His frown had deepened; without waiting for Sandor’s invitation, he sat across him. “I guess it explains a lot.”

“Like, what?” Sandor spat.

“Like Anguy telling me that Lem saw you losing it because the kids were too noisy or something. Like you shut yourself up instead of... being in the gym and talking to us.”

“Never was much of a chatterbox, in case you didn’t notice.” Staying calm and not yelling at Pod was becoming harder with each passing second.

Pod didn’t seem to notice his murderous look though and he scooted to the edge of his seat. Don’t lecture me, boy, you don’t know what you’re doing. Said boy didn’t get his silent warning and he countered: “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Look, Pod, I don’t want to sound rude, because you’re a decent guy and you’re always obliging, but you’d better-” He paused and swallowed hard. “- you’d better get lost.”

Pod didn’t move. Glued to his seat, he stared at Sandor, as if he had not heard him seeing him out.

“What do you want, huh? You want details?” Despite the rage lacing each syllable, the kid listened, unblinking. “We had dinner, she said she loved your bloody recipe, we had sex, then she fell asleep in my bed. I fell asleep too but when I woke up she was gone. End of story.” Without him noticing, his hands had curled into balled fists. “Now don’t ask me details about how she loved your recipe, because I said it doesn’t fucking matter now.” With a sigh, he sat back in his swivel chair, making it creak.

Speechless, Pod gave him a long look. “I had no idea. I’m sorry, man. I understand-”

Sandor shook his head, refusing to hear more of this. _No, you don’t understand, you fucking can’t understand what’s going on in my head. I meet her seven years after I left, I try to make friends with her although all I can think about is fucking her, she makes it clear that she wants a date, and apparently more than just a dinner, and come the morning, she’s gone._

“Fuck off,” he hissed, gripping the edge of his desk not to do something he would regret later. He saw Pod’s incredulous look, and the fright visible when he turned pale. Then the kid seemed to finally realize it was time to leave and he closed the door carefully behind him, as if he feared to bother the animal licking his wounds inside.

Head in his palms behind his desk, Sandor exhaled a deep sigh that didn’t alleviate the tension he felt in his shoulders. _What did I do with Pod? What did I do with her? What did I miss? Did I say or did I do something that hurt her?_ His jaw tense, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to play the events again in his head.

 _It doesn’t make any sense,_ he complained inwardly, cradling his head. From day one, from their chance encounter in the elevator of the hospital, she had been the one who took the lead. She had given him her number, she had told him to stay for dinner the day she had moved in her new apartment, she had asked for a pub crawl, then for a dinner at his place. _I guess one can’t say I put up resistance, but all these choices, she made them, and I just followed, like a good dog. Then what went wrong?_

Lem boasted about his expertise as far as women’ psyche was concerned and he never was stingy with advice when one of the kids was at a loss with his girlfriend. Sandor was no specialist in the subject, but he knew deep down Sansa was willing the night before: there was no doubt about it and she had liked what he had done to her. That too, was a certainty. Why leave if she liked it? Sansa wasn’t the kind of girl who took pleasure in torturing other people. Surely, there was an explanation to her departure. Was she late for work? Sandor shook his head: she would have left a note in this case, and there wasn’t anything in the bedroom nor in the kitchen: he had combed his house, this morning. _Twice,_ he told himself with an acute sense of self-abasement. No note, no message on his voicemail… She had vanished into thin air.

So it had to be something else, something she couldn’t tell him. Something she didn’t want to tell him. And all of a sudden, as he mentally went through his memories of the night before, he remembered what Sansa had confessed as she was already naked. _“I had a one-night stand, after I broke up with Harry. It was last year. I haven't had sex since then.”_ What could have happened that made her decide not to have sex for a whole year? For a girl like Sansa, finding someone to keep her warm at night was child’s play. _What did this bastard do to her?_ If he considered timing in which somebody gave you an information was as important as the information itself, then it made this revelation essential. _She told me about that one-night stand just before we fucked, it’s not a coincidence._ _“I had a one-night stand. I had a one-night stand.”_ He still heard her whispering her secret, her blue eyes darting away from him in embarrassment. Rubbing his face with his palm, he tried to understand what she meant, why it was so important until a realization dawned upon him. He was wrong, since the beginning. _The fucking Occam’s razor,_ he mused. That was the kind of stuff he had learned while working with Barristan. _The simpler hypothesis is always the best._ She had not mentioned her one-night stand because something had happened that night, one year ago. She had not told him about it because she was afraid of being sore. Sansa had talked about her one-night stand, at that very moment, to warn him. One year earlier, she had had sex with a guy and she had left him at dawn - without him noticing, most likely. _Oh no. It can’t be true._

 _She has changed._ That was one of the first things he had told himself when they had met in the hospital. _She has grown talons._ Since the beginning, she had taken the initiative, asking him to stay or to invite her, finally climbing in his bed to leave him at the break of day. _Did she plan it? Did she know exactly what she was doing? Why choose me, then, when she can have anyone? Who knew what ideas Littlefinger had put in her pretty head during all these years or what twisted games the bastard had told her? Is that it? Was she playing with me all this time? I was fool enough to think I was seducing her but it was the other way around. I was the fucking prey. I was blind._ Blinded by the illusion he could have her he had not paid attention to what she was telling him.

Sandor admitted he had not made things easier for her, assuming she wanted to seduce him, because his doubts prevented him from jumping at the chance. Had he been less cautious and less eager to do things properly, he would have screwed her over some cardboard boxes the night she had moved in. _Did she want me because I sort of resisted? Did she imagine I was hung like a horse?_  Suppressing a sigh, he opened one of the drawers of the desk and fished in until he found a bottle of aspirin: headache was coming and he doubted that reflecting on the situation relieved it. He swallowed a tablet, then took a sip of water and glanced around his shoulder. From where he was, he could see the parking lot through the window. _This is stupid. I’m fucking stupid, sitting there, waiting for the aspirin to ease my headache and to help me understand what happened._ He fought back the urge to smash something and closed his eyes again.

 _Should I call her?_ It felt like self-inflicted torture. I just need to understand. For the first time since he had met her, he realized he needed and he truly wanted somebody’s advice, but there was only one person who might be of some help. One person who had already seen him at his worst and who wouldn’t judge him. _The Elder Brother._ He retrieved his cell phone from his back pocket and gave it a wary look: the Elder Brother was her boss and he could mean well but tell her something completely unnecessary because, Sandor admitted it, if there was one fucking person in this world who was protective of him, it was the Elder Brother. _Shit. What other choice do I have?_ He opened the list of his contacts, then called him.

As he waited for the Elder Brother to pick up the phone, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. _Try to calm down. Don’t sound like you’re going to lose it._ He didn’t want the Elder Brother’s pity, only his advice on the situation.

“Hey, Sandor!” He could almost see the Elder Brother’s grin despite the distance. “I was about to call you, although I don’t call anyone when I go fishing, but I remember you and Sansa were supposed to have dinner last night.” He heard birds singing and calling each other; he immediately guessed the Elder Brother was fishing by the river. The man owned a cabin out there where he liked to withdraw for a day or two everytime he needed to forget the tumultuous atmosphere of the hospital.

“So you took a day off?” Sandor managed to ask, trying to sound as detached as possible.

“I worked overtime last week!” the man laughed, before going silent all of a sudden. “But you didn’t call me because I took a day off. What’s wrong?”

“Fuck. Did I say something was wrong?”

He heard the Elder Brother sighing. “I know you, Sandor,” the man reminded him. “You don’t call people just to hear their voice. You could call Sansa just to hear her voice, I’d wager, but to hear mine? No, I don’t buy it. Spit it out.”

After a short silence, Sandor told him all: her unexpected visit at the gym, the dinner, the tension he felt and that look in her eyes that made his hands clammy. Without giving him any detail about his night with Sansa, he made it clear that they had slept together and she seemed willing. Confessing he had woken up in an empty bed felt like the hardest thing he had ever done. In the end, he waited for the Elder Brother’s answer with bated breath.

“No note, no message since this morning?” the doctor trailed off. “I don’t know what to say, Sandor.”

“I bet you never experienced something like this,” Sandor snorted.

“You’re mistaken. I did. I can’t tell you where your relationship with Sansa is going, but I did wake up in an empty bed although I had fallen asleep beside a woman a few hours earlier.”

Sandor knew he should have said something, like _'"m sorry"_ , but the words were caught in his throat. He imagined his friend and mentor reaching out to an empty space in the bed and, notwithstanding his inability to speak, he felt bad for him.

“I know it hurts,” the Elder Brother went on. “I could tell you it will pass, but… we both know where we stand concerning your feelings for Sansa. You know… I don’t think she did it to hurt you. She probably feels terrible right now-”

The Elder Brother’s compassion for Sansa infuriated Sandor; he interrupted him: “You didn’t pay attention to what I told you! She played with me! Since the fucking beginning, she knew she’d leave and she told me shit to win my confidence. Why did she want to have sex with me, I don’t know, but she used me, I’m positive!”

Silence stretched between them and Sandor heard the birds by the river again, chirping uselessly. “This is so convenient for you to believe she planned everything and used you, right?” The irony lining the Elder Brother’s words struck him. “You’re so persuaded nobody could ever want you for yourself, you’d rather imagine that the girl turned into a sort of predator who only wanted to have fun with you before discarding you like a used tissue. What do you think? We’re talking about Sansa Stark, not about the Whore of Babylon.”

Sandor was at a loss. He softened somehow: “Listen, I turned things over in my head and I can tell you-”

“No. You’re going to listen to me. I don’t believe a word of it. Sansa is not that kind of girl who hurts people. She knows exactly what it feels like to be used. Now if I didn’t convince you yet, listen carefully: Sansa won’t run away, because she’s a sensible girl and she’s got a job and an apartment in Quiet Isle. And there’s no way she would do something like that before dumping you without an explanation. You know why? It’s a small town and life would get complicated for her after doing something that stupid.”

Sandor nodded, even though the Elder Brother couldn’t see his gesture of acquiescence. “Are you still here, Sandor?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah. If she didn’t… use me, what is it then, you Smartass?”

His friend ignored his acerbic tone and answered quietly: “You don’t have a corner on self-doubts and hesitation, Sandor. She might be just as panicked as you are.” Again, the birds sang, emphasizing Sandor’s distraught silence. “OK. Do you want me to call her? I remember she wasn’t supposed to work today.”

“Fuck, no! Don’t you dare call her. I’m a big boy, I can handle this.”

“Of course you are.” There was a hint of irony in the Elder Brother’s tone that would have incensed him had the circumstances been different. “Just wait, Sandor, and she’ll come back.”

 _But when? And what should I do when she does? If she does,_ he corrected himself as the Elder Brother told him goodbye and hung up. He considered calling him back to ask his advice again, but he gave up, clinging to whatever remained of his self-esteem.

As the shadows grew longer in his office and as the gym filled with young and older men who probably wondered where he was on a Saturday afternoon, Sandor stayed behind his desk, unable to work on the accounting, yet too embarrassed to step out of his office. If he left the small room that had become his shelter that day, the members of the gym would understand at once what was wrong with him. _It’s plain to see. And I bet Anguy and Lem told everyone about my date with Sansa yesterday night._

As the Elder Brother had suggested, he waited.

The clock showed 6:00 PM now. _Where is she? What is she doing?_ If she wasn’t at the hospital, like the Elder Brother had said, did she spend the day at her place? _I can’t take it,_ he mused, glancing at the clock for the umpteenth time, yet he stayed there, glaring at the screen of his cell phone that didn’t show any new message. _And what if she doesn’t come because the Elder Brother is wrong?_ The bloody doctor trusted his own judgment because he never was mistaken and as far as Sandor knew, that would be a first. _Still, what if he’s wrong and my guess is right?_ For a change, Sandor hoped he was wide of the mark.

Behind the door, the gym was a hive of activity, starkly contrasting with the heavy silence inside the office. Sandor had not even turned on the lights and therefore stayed behind his desk in the dark, the atmosphere around him matching his somber mood. A knock at the door roused him from his thoughts.

He lifted his gaze to see two shadows through the textured glass panel of the door.

“You sure he’s here?” a young masculine voice said.

“Brienne told me so,” a deeper voice countered.

“Really? ‘Cause I didn’t see him and I’ve been here for like, forever. Plus, the lights are turned off...”

“Sandor?” Whoever was standing behind the door really wanted to see him. “Are you there?”

Instead of telling his visitors to come in, he let the swivel chair squeak under his weight as he got on his feet, then he walked to the door, wondering how he could explain what he was doing alone in the dark. The door creaked open. _Lem. Again._ In the half-open door, the man looked a bit puzzled.

“Hey,” he said, stroking his beard. “There’s someone here for you.” Tilting his head, he showed a spot on Sandor’s left.

Sandor turned his head to see one of the kids and behind him, Sansa’s sheepish face. He might look like hell after that day locked in his office, but she wasn’t a picture of happiness either. She stepped tentatively toward him but the boy who thought Sandor wasn’t in his office stood in her way, something Lem immediately seemed to realize.

“Come on, kid,” Lem told him. “We’d better give them some space.” With a patronizing pat on the boy’s shoulders, he led him to the treadmills. Sansa swallowed hard as they moved past her, leaving her alone with Sandor.

“Hey,” she mumbled. “I guess we should… talk. Will you- will you let me in?”

He felt like blood had stopped coursing in his veins, like his bones were turning to jelly as she took a few steps. Unable to answer, he nodded and opened the door so that she could come in, but not before turning on the lights in his office. A mere rub of his hands on his eyes and she was here, standing between the door and the desk, the electric light showing how the day had been rough on her too. _"You don’t have a corner on self-doubts and hesitation, Sandor"_ : the Elder Brother’s words resonated strangely as he took in her tousled hair and her off-color face. Even her clothes reflected the despondency he saw in her eyes: contrary to her habit of always wearing the perfect outfit for each occasion, the T-shirt and jeans she wore seemed to have been chosen at random. _Where have you been? What have you done?_

Sansa wrung her hands and fleetingly glanced at his face, most likely gathering her courage before talking; her full lips he had kissed the night before opened slightly, suggesting she was about to say something, then she squeezed her eyes shut as if all this was too much for her and he feared she might run away again. When she opened her eyes, she looked surprisingly determined though and she exhaled deeply like someone who slowly emptied out their lungs to alleviate the tension.

“I came here to apologize.” Her voice was taut. She looked at him as if she expected him to say something and her disappointment became tangible when she seemed to realize he wouldn’t make this easier for her. “I wish- I wish I had an explanation for this morning, for the way I sneaked out, but the truth is, I don’t have any proper excuse. I panicked, that’s all.”

 _Can you imagine what it feels like to fall asleep beside you, then to wake up in an empty bed? How does it feel to treat me like crap? Are you satisfied now that you came here to check how fucked-up I am thanks to you?_ Although he remained silent, ideas raced through his mind and venomous words threatened to tumble out of his mouth.

“Are you going to say something?” she asked him, arching an eyebrow at his lack of reaction. “I said I was sorry.”

And suddenly, instead of the bubble of kisses and oblivion he had expected when she had showed up, the room was thick with tension. They stood there, a handful of feet apart, but he felt like there was an impassable wall between them.

Deep and croaky, his voice resonated in the office, almost startling her after his long, never-ending silence. “Where were you?”

Sansa hugged herself before answering: “I drove. I needed to think, so I drove. Considered calling you a dozen times but never found the courage to do it. I needed to see you anyway. To talk to you.”

“Talk then.”

Her eyes closed again at his sharp, dismissive tone and when they fluttered open, she shot a glare at him. “I’m back. I intend to stay this time.” Her voice was tinged with hurt, now.

No matter how badly he wanted her, nor how he was relieved to see her in flesh and bone after imagining she was gone forever, he couldn’t just open his arms and enjoy the moment. _And in the end, you're on your own._ That straightforward and simplistic sentence was his motto after his father’s death, after he had learned the hard way people could vanish into thin air, or die, or simply disappoint him. He had went through so many things with these simple words as a talisman, it was difficult to just get rid of it and to pretend he was ready to love someone, although he had never been loved. He gritted his teeth for fear of bursting into tears.

“Do you have the slightest idea of what it feels like to be married to someone you don’t love and who only loves what you own?” Sansa’s voice hit the high note. “I never had a healthy relationship before, unless you consider pretending I was Baelish’s daughter healthy. I’m almost 24 and I hardly know what it’s like to go on a date! What was I supposed to do?”

As her interrogations echoed his, somehow, all he could do was open his arms for her, although he shook like a fucking leaf and felt terribly awkward. Sansa locked eyes with him, and for a split second he saw her hesitation, not because she still questioned their relationship but because she just got her fingers burnt and she wanted to be sure he was serious now; she nevertheless closed the space between them and threw herself in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his chest and he wished he had donned something properly ironed instead of that old sagging T-shirt. _Fuck. It smells of sweat, I’d wager._ She didn’t seemed annoyed by the smell though and she rubbed her tired little face against him as his arms settled on the small of her back. “I’ll never do that again. I promise.”

Sandor muttered soothing words that didn’t make much sense, probably, and he held her tight, relishing her warmth and the blissful sensation of having her in his arms. _Again,_ he mused, mesmerized by the feeling of her hands going up his torso and snaking around his neck. Soon her fingers brushed the nape of his neck and stopped on his throat caressing his pulse and sending shivers down his spine.

“Can we have dinner at your place?” The question surprised him, not only because she seemed to forget about their argument but also because it was only 6:30 and there was no way the gym could close so early, especially on a Saturday night. And at the same time, her bluntness made him chuckle. “What, Sandor? There was still plenty of lamb in the casserole, don’t tell me you ate everything.”

“Damn, girl, do you have your head screwed on right? I have some leftovers, but what am I supposed to do with them all?” He motioned his head to the door, referring to the members of the gym.

Sansa craned her neck to look at him without breaking their embrace. “I don’t know.” The way her blue eyes questioned him, almost saying _“I thought you were my hero, why are you even bothering me with this?”_ struck him and he immediately racked his brains to find something. _I have to._

“Alright, I’ll talk to Lem, if I can find him. Or I’ll ask someone else…” He soon convinced himself he could entrust the keys to anyone that night, even to a smooth-faced kid, if it was the only way he could have dinner with her. But is it dinner she wants to have? “Just let me go to the treadmills…” He almost escaped her arms before changing his mind. _No I can’t._ Sandor felt torn between his fear of public display of affection and his desire not to let go of her, at any price, but the latter won and he left the office with her hand in his.

* * *

By chance, Lem had decided to play cupid that night and Sandor had easily convinced him to close the gym. Lem had even suggested he could drop the keys in Sandor’s mailbox afterward, _“in case you don’t want to be disturbed”_ , he had added with a broad grin. How was he going to repay the favor? He didn’t know but it was the least of his worries, as he took the gravel road that led to his house.

Sansa’s car was still behind his truck, diligently following him and he thought with a pang of guilt he had spent more time glancing at the rear-view mirror, to make sure she was there, than looking ahead on the road since they had left the gym.

She parked her car next to him and she got out or rather bolted out of her gray sedan to throw herself in his arms. Hurried kisses made their progression to the entrance door slower or more perilous, for she nearly stumbled on the gravel and Sandor had all the trouble in the world to find his keys and to open the door. Once inside, it became clear that, if Sansa had mastered her urge to kiss him and to hold him at the gym, when there were people around them, she now intended to let her hair down. Not that Sandor would complain, but as she leaned back against the door, pulling him close, he broke their kiss and asked mischievously: “I thought you wanted to have dinner.”

She laughed before stealing his breath again with a long kiss. “I couldn’t tell you what I had in mind. Is there a socially acceptable way to tell you to take off your clothes?”

“You could have said “Take off your clothes, pretty please”,” he countered, his lips brushing her ear lobe. “That would sound like you.” Instead of answering, she teased him by claiming another kiss. She almost had her legs wrapped around his middle now and he felt hard as rock. “Upstairs?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” she whispered against the scruff of his neck.

* * *

She had given herself to him and filled his bedroom with her scent, her laughter, her moaning. She had writhed under him, arching her back against the mattress, then she had ridden him, never breaking eye contact. _Because she had grown talons,_ he told himself. _My bolder Sansa with her brown hair._ The color of her hair was something he didn’t like. He understood she had started dying her hair when she had left the Lannisters’ clutches at the exact moment she had started toughen up; maybe getting back to her natural hair color scared her somehow, as if she associated red hair with her older self and with vulnerability.

As she still tried to catch her breath, lying flat on the back, he rolled on his side, propped himself on his elbow and contemplated her. By places, her brown hair stuck to her damp forehead so he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, as tenderly as he could. His gesture forced a breathless laugh out of her.

“What?” she managed to say, exhaling deeply afterwards. She tilted her head back in the process and her back arched slightly. It was enough to bring a wolfish smile on his lips. _Give me five minutes and I’ll make you arch your back for a better reason._

He shook his head, trying to compose himself. “I’m just looking at you. Thought I’d never see you again.”

Sansa reached out to brush his jaw, her blue eyes apologetic. “I told you I was confused. I’m truly sorry.”

He tipped his head into the caress, then put a light kiss on her fingertips. “Let’s forget this. I ran away as well, a long time ago.”

She pulled him close, making him lean over her and they started kissing, although a part of him couldn’t focus on Sansa’s lips. He was lying; there was no way he could forget the emptiness in his bed and in his heart that morning. The fear of experiencing the sense of loss once more would remain, in the recesses of his mind, no matter the efforts she’d make to reassure him, no matter his smiles to pull the wool over her eyes. A huge, uncontrollable anxiety had bloomed because he had lowered his guard when deciding he wanted her in his life; now he knew losing her could happen any moment. _Not because of the Lannisters or because this world is fucked up. Just because she may want to leave me someday._ Now that danger and untimely deaths were bad memories, there was one thing that could take Sansa away from him: life. _Life’s a bitch,_ he thought, _but I could very well help her tear us apart by doing some shit._

He broke their kiss, wondering if she had the slightest idea of the huge waves banging in his head, but her blue eyes were unreadable. The sun had set and Sandor turned on the bedside lamp so that he could see her. _Maybe watching her curves would distract me from my fucking bad feeling._ And watch her he did. As she stared at him, visibly hesitating between exasperation and amusement, his eyes followed the sinuous path starting from her collarbone to her hip, roaming over a breast and lingering in the dip of her waist. Sansa had covered herself with the sheet; he therefore pushed aside the covers and shook his head at the protestations his gesture induced. He sat up, towering above her lying form and pretending to threaten her, then he stared down at her lower belly, anticipating the moment she would squirm under his gaze.

“Tsk tsk.” She was chuckling and blushing at the same time, already trying to escape his insistent look.

He stilled her by resting both hands on her hips, then he locked eyes with her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know what I asked myself that day in the elevator when I saw you?”

“You asked yourself if I was pregnant. I’m not likely to forget that part, Sandor Clegane.”

“No, no, you’re missing the point, young lady.” He almost sneered at her, before lowering his head so that all she could see was the thin curtain of his dark hair. His right hand left her hipbone to caress her lower belly. She gasped under his touch and when his fingertips wandered between her parted legs, brushing the soft flesh, merely hidden by neatly trimmed hair, he explained: “I saw your brown hair and I asked myself if your hair was brown down there too. But no.” His fingertips barely touched her but nonetheless elicited a tiny “oh”. “You’re still red-haired.”

“I hate you,” she mouthed, knees bent and almost offered to him.

She seemed relaxed and the glint in her eye told Sandor she was ready for a second round. He could have put his hands on her kneecaps and spread her legs but instead, Sandor removed his fingers, eager to see how she would react. He expected her to protest, louder this time because in the end she wanted his hand there and certainly not just his hand, but it was her turn to surprise him.

She bit her lip before asking: “May I use your bathroom? I barely showered this morning, before- before going for a drive. I’d like to take a shower.”

He observed her with curiosity, then he laughed. “It’s not a shower you want. I remember your face yesterday when you saw the bathtub. You want a bath.”

“Busted!” she admitted with a smile. “Do I have your permission?”

“Make yourself at home.” She didn’t need to be told twice: rolling over in bed, she got on her feet. _Make yourself at home._ As the mattress moved beneath him, he realized what kind of truth the cliché encapsulated. No matter how spartan his house was, no matter the lack of decoration and the absence of countless things she probably considered essential, Sandor wanted his house to be hers too, if possible, if she cared enough to set up home.

After looking at him over her shoulder - one of these glances that were her signature, whether they were quizzical or flirtatious - she bent over to pick a dirty buttoned-down shirt he had left on the floor and she put it on, robbing him of the sight of her naked body. Then, she freed her long hair from the collar of his shirt and walked away. _I have to follow her._ He almost jumped out of the bed, hurriedly put on his boxer shorts and he went after her.

Sansa’s feigned surprise didn’t fool him when he pushed the bathroom door open. _You know exactly what you’re doing, girl, but we can pretend otherwise if you wish._ He showed her how to fill the bathtub, retrieved fresh towels from the cupboard and finally gave her a long look. Sansa still wore his gray button-down shirt that was way too big for her but barely covered her ass; she had rolled up the sleeves and she observed him with a half-smile, one hand on her hip as water slowly filled the bathtub, its gurgling noise drowning out Sandor’s pathetic monologue. Just seeing her in his gray shirt and knowing she didn’t wear anything else made him half-hard and gazing at the valley between her breasts didn’t help.

“I guess this is the moment when I leave you alone,” he rasped, retreating towards the door. As she didn’t answer, he crossed the threshold, before sticking his head in the door again. “Won’t you feel lonely in here? Don’t you need someone to protect you from monsters?”

Her jaw dropped but if she answered something he didn’t hear it, because water still burbled in the bathtub. When she motioned him inside though, his heart pounded in his chest. He closed the door and planted himself in front of her.

“What kind of monsters hide in a bathroom? Shampoo devil? Gremlins who feed on dirty towels?” she asked with the most serious tone.

“Dunno. That’s why you shouldn’t stay alone in here.”

“I can’t see bubble bath,” she said after a silence, disguising the fit of laughter she tried to fight behind a pout.

“I’ll make bubbles in your bath if you want.” If he was being honest, it was true: he’d make anything to please her. She laughed at that and he took advantage of the situation to rest his hands on her hips. A glance at the bathtub confirmed it was full now. He removed his hands from her hips for a second and bent over to turn off the faucet. “Enough,” he stated, in such a way she might ask herself if he referred to the bathtub or to their banter.

Her eyes widened slightly when possessive hands landed on her hips again, then pulled her close. She held his gaze though until one of his hands left her hip to caress the juncture of her thighs and to find her wet; although he merely touched her she closed her eyes and moaned. Spurred on by her reaction, he tried to remove the button-down shirt she wore but he was too eager to make a satisfying job. She finally pulled the shirt over her head, putting an end to his agony. _Perky boobs,_ he commented inwardly as he looked down at her, _and they’re all mine._

He pinned her to the wall with a grunt, ignoring her squeal, something between a protestation and a laughter, when her back hit the cold tiles. Sandor was flush against her, his hand resting on the wall by her head; her girlish chuckle vanished as soon as she noticed how serious and even threatening he looked.

“Water is going to get cold,” she observed, biting her lower lip in anticipation at the end of her sentence. Her eyes were going from his face to his abdomen.

“Look at me and dare say a hot bath is what you care about right now,” he rasped.

Her head lolled back as she laughed again and he silenced her with a kiss. She wailed into his mouth, a tiny, useless objection that could have made him smile if his lips weren’t busy yet, caressing and nibbling at hers. He lifted her in his arms, his hard cock pressed against her belly then he possessively pushed her knees apart and settled between her legs. In response, Sansa wrapped her legs around his middle and tangled her fingers in his hair, her curious eyes locking with him. _You didn’t know you liked it a bit wild, did you?_ One of his hands reached between them to free his cock from his boxer shorts and to slide a finger inside her.

“Fuck,” he hissed. She was dripping wet. He nonetheless decided to resume his ministrations until she shook her head firmly.

“Don’t make me wait, Sandor. Now.” Her heavy eyelids and husky voice aroused him even more if possible. He guided himself inside her, marveled at the sensation of filling her and just when he thought he couldn’t feel any better, the whimpering sound that escaped her lips told him how good it was for her too; he placed both hands under her bottom to still her movements and to hold her tightly.

Sansa’s expression while he moved in her - eyes widening, then squeezing shut, mouth ajar - fascinated him. He felt in his guts it was a discovery for her, something she had never experienced before. _Hence her moaning._ He restrained himself from speeding up the pace, eager to make sure she came, squeezing a breast and claiming her mouth from time to time, but as soon as her mewl became louder and high-pitched, announcing her release was close, he pounded inside her, unable to keep a grip on himself any longer. She sounded like she was crying now, and her heels dug in the small of his back, a reminder she was clutching to him, begging him to stay there. His balls tightened and Sandor buried his face in the crook of her neck, waiting for the moment he would feel like something was exploding behind his eyelids. Eyes closed, he saw the brightness, then pleasure dazzled him and he felt like he couldn’t control a single muscle of his body; he spilled himself inside her. Remembering Sansa’s precarious position, he withdrew and made a tremendous effort to hold her until she reached her feet to the floor, and even after she did, he stayed there, bracing himself against the wall. His breathing was erratic and his legs shook, pain soon replacing pleasure in his thigh; Sansa panted too yet she found the strength to embrace him and to plant a kiss on his neck. After a while, very slowly, she took his hand and led him to the bathtub.

* * *

They didn’t stay in the bathtub for a long time; her limbs encased in his and her back resting against his chest, Sansa sniffed his shampoo with a skeptical look on her face - as far as he could see when he gazed down at her - then she washed her hair and scrubbed herself. She scrubbed him too, without noticing his annoyed look or mistaking it for exhaustion. _We should have used a condom. I should have. She didn’t seem to mind and by the way she hummed while washing his back he could tell she had loved the way he had taken her, but… But I’ve been with other women. I took a fucking wealth of precaution but you never know…_

“Time to go to bed, now,” she announced, giving him a chaste kiss. The smell of his shampoo was everywhere on them, tickling his nostrils. She stood up, dripping wet and cheerful, grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it before motioning him out of the bathtub.

They collapsed on his bed, still wrapped in their towels and Sandor’s heart skipped a beat when remembering she had fallen asleep there less than 24 hours earlier, before abandoning him. Lying flat on her back, Sansa contemplated the towel draped around her breasts, then she glanced at her clothes scattered across the room, visibly asking herself if she should keep the towel or not, if she should put her underwear on or not. Sandor didn’t trouble himself with that sort of question: he yanked at the towel around his hips and tossed it to the floor before propping himself up on his elbows.

He cocked his head to the side to gaze at Sansa who still chewed her lip and played with the hem of her towel. “Are you staying tonight?” He hoped he didn’t sound too desperate, too insistent. _Or too fucking stupid._ The more her silence dragged on, the more uncertain he was.

“Sandor, I came back. I’m staying. Tomorrow morning, you’re going to regret it because I can be very grumpy if I’m sleepy-”

“Don’t say that,” he cut her off. “Don’t say I’ll regret it because you know it’s wrong.”

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’m staying, period.” She kept staring at him, brow furrowed after a few heartbeats. “Are you so wary that you’re thinking about tying me to the bed?”

He chuckled, then cupped her face, before whispering in her ear: “I should probably do that.” With a devilish grin, he slid a finger between her breasts, where she had tucked the hem of her towel, relishing her shudder and her gasp. He added: “You don’t need that.”

Like his before, Sansa’s towel landed on the floor; she squirmed under his touch. “It’s late,” he reminded her, wondering if she was thinking of a third round. Anxiety had taken its toll on him and all he wanted was fall asleep with Sansa in his arms. She seemed happy with that; when he rolled on his back, she nestled against him, head pillowed by his chest, her arm draped across his torso.

“See? I’m staying. You’ll have to make tea for me in the morning,” she said as he hesitated: should he turn the bedside lamp off?

“I don’t have tea.”

“I’m not surprised. You’d better give me a good reason to get up, then.”

“Like what?” he rasped, kissing the crown of her head.

“Like, I don’t know… Do you think the kitchen table is more comfortable than the tiles on the wall of your bathroom?” she asked, craning her neck to see his reaction.

He took in her wicked smile and tousled her damp hair. “You’ve changed, Sansa Stark… Fuck, how am I supposed to fall asleep now that I’ll picture you sitting on the kitchen table and spreading your thighs for me?”

She grinned at that, then tightened her grip on him ever so slightly. He was drifting in and out of sleep when she chuckled against his pecs.

“What now?” he growled, drowsy.

“I just realized something. You know the Elder Brother has his own parking space at the hospital, with his name on it?”

 _What the hell is she talking about the Elder Brother and his parking space?_ If she wanted to keep him awake, the kitchen table and the activities she wanted them to do on was a far better topic.

“What about the Elder Brother, little bird?”

“It’s just-” She shifted slightly so that her head rested on his shoulder; her fingertips traced the outline of his tattoo. _Broad strokes and fine strokes._ It almost seemed like she was asking: _"What does the “S” stands for, Sandor?"_

“You see,” she went on, “I don’t have a parking space with my name on it yet. Someday, maybe… ” The pad of her forefinger pressed against his flesh, insisting on the tattoo. “Now I know why you got your tattoo, Sandor. You got it so that a young nurse who doesn’t have her own parking space could read her name on your chest one night, rest her head there and say _“This is where I belong.”_ "

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this is the end, maybe you didn’t pay attention to Sandor’s inner monologue: we’re halfway through the story. Being together doesn’t mean there will be ‘hugs and rainbows everywhere’ (I wish I had found that turn of phrase by myself, but Khaleesi95 invented it).  
> When there’s no danger lurking outside, nor social conventions to prevent Sansa and Sandor to love one another, what’s left? Two persons with their doubts, their secrets, their fears and Sandor’s certainty he doesn’t deserve Sansa’s love: that’s what I want to explore in the next chapters.  
> Not much action, no bluff. There will be bad and good moments, crying jag and fits of laughter. If you stick around I promise to study Sansa and Sandor’s relationship and to write an ending which is not a bit sad but not fluffy either. Just believable.


	8. Episode 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was being honest, Sansa’s presence had shed a different light on his house: sometimes he told himself he had more or less discovered his place with her, through her eyes. Maybe the way he saw it had changed as they created new memories together in his house. 
> 
> It all started with Sansa’s suggestion concerning the kitchen table and the way they could use it the night she had come back to him. As Sansa had mischievously implied, he didn’t have tea for her breakfast, but he had nonetheless given her a good reason to spend some time in the kitchen the morning after. According to Sansa, the kitchen table was more comfortable than the cold bathroom tiles, but less handy than the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta, Underthenorthernlights.  
> A huge thank you to all the readers who took the trouble to leave a comment: your support means a lot to me!
> 
> No danger lurking here, no major event, but a more intimist turn in this story. Hope you’ll enjoy it...

From where he was, sprawled on his bed, his arms flung above his head against the pillow, the naked woman standing by his window was impossible to miss despite the dim light of dawn: brown hair that flew down her shoulders and her back, pale skin that invited his eyes to focus on the small of her back and on her pretty bottom; long, never-ending legs.

As neither of them worked on that Sunday morning - Sansa would go to the hospital after lunch, though - they enjoyed the sunrise from Sandor’s bedroom and by the way she stared through the window, he knew she relished the moment as much as he did.

“Should buy some curtains,” he informed her, his voice still sleepy.

Sansa glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why?”

“Because-” he sat up with a grunt, pushed the sheets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Because I’m getting jealous. Deers and rabbits could see you.” In three strides, he crossed the room and stood behind her, as naked as she was. “I can’t tolerate that.”

She laughed. He took advantage of the situation to grab her hips and to pull her close, making her laugh. “So you’re jealous of deers and rabbits?”

“Yep.” He buried his nose in her hair and kissed the crown of her head.

“When did you buy this house again?” she inquired, tipping her head back and leaning against him. “Three years ago?” He grunted in approval. “And you never bought curtains for your bedroom window? Why buy curtains now?” There was a hint of mockery in her tone.

“Because deers and rabbits didn’t have a naked girl to check out before.”

“Maybe it’s a naked man they were checking out, all this time,” she retorted, squirming in his arms and finally turning around to face him. Her hand traced his pecs and slid down, stopping a few inches above his cock. “It feels like a lot of changes happened in this house lately.”

Changes. There were changes aplenty in his house.

It had started with him buying a decent mug for Sansa’s morning tea and an extra pillow - he had never bother to buy another one so far. Then, in two weeks, new items had popped up in the house, mostly in the kitchen, the bathroom or his bedroom. There were three different blends of tea in the kitchen cupboard and a freshly cleaned tea ball lying on the table. There were vegetables in the fridge and instead of buying something from the food truck, he often ate from the lunchbox she had convinced him to prepare with her.

_Spot the difference._ It also worked with the bathroom; not that the bathtub or the sink were swamped with Sansa’s things - he suspected she kept the invasion to a minimum, but he had come to think that it would eventually happen - but the fragrance of her shampoo and body wash was something new in his bachelor’s bathroom.

If he was being honest, Sansa’s presence had shed a different light on his house: sometimes he told himself he had more or less discovered his place with her, through her eyes. Maybe the way he saw it had changed as they created new memories together in his house.

It all started with Sansa’s suggestion concerning the kitchen table and the way they could use it the night she had come back to him. As Sansa had mischievously implied, he didn’t have tea for her breakfast, but he had nonetheless given her a good reason to spend some time in the kitchen the morning after. According to Sansa, the kitchen table was more comfortable than the cold bathroom tiles, but less handy than the couch.

A few days before, she had straddled him with a triumphant smile as he lied down on the living room floor, watching TV before she came back from the hospital. In retaliation, he had waited for her to immerse herself in the paperwork she inevitably brought back from work; she liked to do that on the couch, sitting back against the cushions, unaware the sight of her skater skirt made his mind wander to dangerous places. He had sat next to her, feigning innocence, before pushing the skirt up. Sansa had flicked his fingers and cleared her throat to regain her composure, but the harm had been done and she was already aroused. Another brush of his fingers against her thighs had been enough to make her part her legs but she still held the ridiculous file, where she tried to hide her blush behind. _Did you convince yourself you can keep reading this shit while I touch you?_

His fingers had found their way inside her panties, then inside her. That was when she had surrendered, the brownish file waving in the air in lieu of a white flag before landing on the floor. She had arched her back and moaned, suggesting in an undertone they go upstairs. Sandor had said no, even if his cock was hard: what he wanted at that moment was the pleasure of seeing her giving in and coming there, with her clothes still on, on his couch. Somehow, the old gray couch had acquired an erotic quality it didn’t possess before.

Sansa had spent a lot of time at his place - much more time than he spent at hers - but she had also paid him some visits at the gym. Sandor had spotted some of the highschool kids laughing under their breath as Sansa and him locked themselves inside his office. The first time, she was too shy to allow more than heated kisses and burning touches here and there and she had escaped his arms too soon. What he expected to be a home run had turned into a fiasco, leaving him hard as rock and frustrated: he had barely touched second base. The second and third times, the notion the others could hear them still panicked her, but she had given in. Now he always kept condoms in his pockets because he never knew when he would use them and whenever he shoved his hands in his pockets and found their plastic wrap, he felt like a bloody teenager.

Sandor had thought she would come back to the gym for more impromptu visits so the next time she had stuck her head in the door while he was reading his mail behind his desk, he had told himself he was a hell of a lucky bastard. Smiling to himself, he had watched her coming in before closing the door behind her and leaning back against it.

It was right after lunch and what she had in mind was probably an afternoon sex romp, judging by that sparkle in her eyes he knew too well by now. She wore a beige oversized shirt dress, with black pantyhose - something he found quite strange in June - and a belt that made her waist look even smaller. Just the sight of her standing there was enough to arouse him.

After they exchanged glances Sansa walked around the desk and planted herself in front of him. “What are you doing?” she murmured.

“Boring stuff. What have _you_ been doing?” He knew she had a day off; they had spent the night at her place for a change and she had slept in, while he had an early start.

She giggled, leaning forward and allowing him to see her cleavage. “Things,” she finally replied. At that moment, Sandor sat back in his swivel chair and her hands landed on the armrests. She had put on makeup with extra care, applying jet black eyeliner as if she was going out. _No,_ he thought, _not sure she puts this on her face when she goes out, I’m sure she keeps it simple._ He nevertheless smiled at her boldness but there was something he couldn’t quite place, something that prevented him from enjoying the moment and the sight of his girlfriend’s luscious lips and tempting curves.

“I drove to the mall and did some shopping,” she explained, a hint of mischief in her tone. “Want to see?”

Before he could answer, she stood up straight, removed her belt and started buttoning down her dress. _Am I fucking dreaming?_ Sandor asked himself, suppressing an incredulous laugh.

He caught a glimpse of black lace as she went on, buttoning down the skirt of her dress without the slightest trace of hesitation it seemed. When it was over, she shrugged off her dress ever so slightly so that he could have a good look at what she had bought; her knee found its place between Sandor’s, on the edge of his seat. _Fuck._ As if her black lace bra and matching panties weren’t enough to make him hard, she wore a black garter belt and black stockings. Now the odd detail of the pantyhose made sense. Sansa waited for his reaction with a triumphant smile playing about her lips; her smile vanished when he stated, a bit coldly: “You’re beautiful.”

He saw the astonishment and panic in her eyes; he realized she would be hurt if he spoke his mind; she already was. For a moment, Sandor hesitated and told himself he could pretend there was nothing bothering him. He could very well give her a wolfish smile and fuck her there and then because it was apparently what she wanted. However, in the end, the urge to say the truth won.

“You don’t like it,” she stammered, tilting her chin up. She was too upset to do a good job at hiding the tears that welled up in her eyes and threatened to ruin her makeup.

“You don’t get it, Sansa. You’re breathtaking, but this is not you. This is not _us_.”

She stared at him, with a mix of anger and disbelief.

“What’s with the stupid act? Are we pretending I’m a fucking CEO and you my secretary? Are we pretending I screw you in an office during lunch? Is this something you really want?” She wiped away a tear. Realizing how furious he sounded, he softened a bit: “If so, if this is a sort of game you want to play, I’ll play. But don’t do this for bad reasons.”

“But-”

“Ask yourself why you’re doing this,” he insisted, adamant. “If that’s what you wanted, fine. If you did this for some other reason…” He didn’t find the strength to go on.

Sansa fought back tears and whispered: “I- I wanted to please you. To surprise you. I was also curious and I wanted to know what it was like to wear these.” She gestured at the garter belt. “Truth is, it’s not comfortable.”

“So why?” he nearly shouted.

She bent forward ever so slightly, as if she wanted to suppress a sob; he guessed she would have doubled over had she been less proud. The tears came all the same: “Because I still feel terrible for what I did to you two weeks ago.”

As she started crying, Sandor pushed himself from his swivel chair and took her in his arms; she didn’t resist and buried her face against his chest. _So that’s why she did it._ A lot of things made sense now: the coffee pot she had offered him and all her kind thoughts. Sandor squeezed her sobbing form, careless of the makeup that would eventually stain his T-shirt. Through her spasms, Sansa clutched to him; he nevertheless stopped rubbing her back when doubts crept in. Was she sincere when they had sex? When she almost jumped on him, like she had done the past couple of weeks, did she want him or did she act out of guilt, because she thought she had hurt him and needed to make up for it? The notion she might have had something in mind when they were in bed sickened him. _If she did it out of compassion…_ Sandor wasn’t sure what he would do in this case. His fingers slowly curled in balled fists. He didn’t even know if he could restrain himself.

All of a sudden, he broke their embrace: Sansa’s red, watery eyes settled on him. “There’s something I need to know,” he rasped. “Today you bought this and you came here because you still feel guilty about running away that morning? What about the other times?”

“What are you talking about? What other times-”

“It’s a simple question. When we fuck, do you do it out of guilt?”

Her eyes widened and she gasped in shock. “How can you say something like that?” she asked in a strangled voice.

She was wet every time he touched her and she visibly loved what he did to her but as soon as doubts had crept in, the indisputable evidence she wanted him had vanished. Craning her neck to look at him, Sansa jabbed a finger in his ribs. “I do have feelings for you. That’s why I came back. That’s why I’m here today. Never doubt that.”

“But you still feel guilty?”

She nodded. “I hurt you. I hurt you and I came back like nothing had happened. I was so happy you still wanted me I pretended everything was fine. It wasn’t. It’s probably my fault; we should have talked… Perhaps we should have waited a bit more but-” She hung her head then raised her eyes to meet his again. “I was so relieved I didn’t want to worry about the rest.”

Deep down, she was as hurt as he was and Sandor realized her sudden departure after their first night together, had consequences on her too. _She put up a front,_ he mused. _She told herself it would be OK, that things would settle down. She did all this in the hope that I’d wipe the slate clean, finally. Because I’m such a moron I never told the little bird I had forgiven her._

His grip on her tightened and she nestled against him once more. “You don’t have to do all this. You wanted to make it up because I never had the guts to talk about it afterward and to tell you we were good.”

Sandor’s hand went up and down her back, clumsily trying to give her all the comfort she needed; she had stopped crying and she stayed there, in his arms, silent.

“I’ll always be afraid you will leave me, Sansa. Because we’re so different. Because I’m a sort of backwoodsman. Because you make more money than I do.”

At that, she wriggled in his arms and locked eyes with him. “Is it a problem?”

“Fuck, no. You worked hard to get your degree and your job is quite demanding. It’s only fair you make more money than a guy who never went to college and runs a boxing gym.”

Sansa shook her head. “You think I could leave you for that reason?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and held her gaze, as calm and collected as he could. “In my experience, people just leave.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger before hugging him. “It’s over,” she whispered against his collarbone, “I’m not leaving.” In the end, he didn’t even know who was comforting the other one, if it was her who needed kisses and warmth because he had ruined her surprise or the pieces of his broken heart she was helping to put back together. They held each other until Sandor asked: “The garter belt… Is it uncomfortable?”

She nodded, self-consciousness making her eyes drift away from him. “It is.”

“Let’s get rid of it, then.” Her eyes widened when he got on his knees, grunting when his wounded leg hit the cold floor; he looked up at Sansa, waiting for her to give her assent. Slowly, he untied the garter belt, fumbled with the suspenders then tossed the damn thing to the floor. He went on with the black stockings, rolling them down on her leg.

When it was over, he contemplated her disheveled state, with her open shirt dress and the black underwear and said: “This is more like you.”

“What am I to do with those?” she asked, pointing at the discarded stockings and garter belt that formed a small heap on the floor. “I should probably throw them away.”

“Don’t. They look beautiful on you. Just wear them for no particular reason. Because you feel like it. It’s good as long as you don’t wear these to make up for something.” He paused, looked at her cheek stained with makeup and kissed her forehead before cupping her chin. “There’s something you should not forget. Lace doesn’t arouse me. You do.”

Eyes closed, Sansa heaved a sigh; it almost sounded like a snort and he couldn’t help frowning. _Did I sound that bloody ridiculous?_ He stood up straight, gritting his teeth when a sharp pain reminded him of his old wound.

“Must be the most erotic thing someone ever told me,” Sansa murmured. She avoided his gaze, as if his words suddenly made her shy.

He caressed her jaw, relished the softness of her skin and he placed his fingertips under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. None of them said anything. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, wondering what to do. Her remark could have been the signal for him to make her sit on his desk and to take her, but Sandor acted as if her momentary shyness had rubbed off on him. _It’s not the right moment,_ he told himself, wrapping his arm around her waist and ducking his head to kiss her.

Sansa’s lips were soft under his; they took their time and it felt like this was happening for the first time. Her hands cupping his face, she placed light kisses on his mouth, not yielding to him yet. He didn’t rush anything either, breathing her in, nibbling at her lips, waiting for her signal to become bolder - or to stop.

“What do you want?” he asked against her mouth.

Another chaste kiss and she replied: “I want to stay in your arms.”

With a sigh he sat down on the swivel chair and she settled on his lap, readjusting her dress as best as she could, yet not buttoning it up. Her calves dangling over the armrest, she stayed there, true to her word, her nose buried in the crook of his neck. Sandor could have complained about the turn of events; he nevertheless found himself wondering how he would react when she would leave his office and get back home. At the thought the warmth across his chest and on his lap would disappear, he had a knot in his stomach.

“I have something to tell you,” Sansa said abruptly, startling him. He had asked her to speak her mind, yet he feared what she might say. _Why the hell am I freaking out?_ What had happened earlier had made him as defenceless as a child. Although she was the one who looked vulnerable with her cheeks stained with makeup and her open dress, he felt like any word coming from her could hurt him. “You remember the night you left, seven years ago?”

How could he forget a night filled with the sound of gunshots and tasting of ashes and blood? Booze usually brought oblivion, but not that night: oddly enough, alcohol had only made every detail more squalid. Every single memory he had of that night looked like a fucking nightmare. He grunted and she took it for a yes.

“For years, I thought you had kissed me, that night,” she went on, her voice quavering.

_What? Why?_ He felt his hands trembling on Sansa’s hips and on her waist; he fisted the fabric of her dress to prevent her from witnessing his moment of weakness. Sandor scolded himself for having stupid reactions, but whether she noticed it or not, she added: “I can’t explain why, nor tell you when I stopped believing you had- you had kissed me,” she trailed off.

Her head resting against his collarbone hardly moved and Sandor asked himself how it would be to look at her in the eyes after she had confessed him one of her most intimate secrets.

“Why tell me now?” He managed to ask her, kissing the crown of her head.

This time, she shifted, propped herself up and looked at him. “Because I trust you. I never told anyone. You were the only person with whom I could share this secret and now we’re together I can tell you.” Solemn, her blue gaze moved between his mouth and his eyes. _She looks so young. She looks as bloody vulnerable as she did that night._

And suddenly, the only appropriate answer escaped his lips, unbidden, and he had the gut feeling it would set them on equal footing: “Maybe you thought I had kissed you because that was what I wanted.”

* * *

One day, Sandor found himself trying to act like a civilized guy who had a girlfriend and a social life. _An ordinary guy._ Since the day Sansa had come back in his life, he had not given a lot of time to the Elder Brother and he felt uncomfortable; the doctor had saved Sandor’s life a few years ago, he had spared no effort to patch him up then to make him change, slowly, into the man he had become. He couldn’t just let him down because he had a girlfriend. He therefore called the Elder Brother one morning, asked him if he wanted to have dinner with him and Sansa and they settled on the next Friday. Very proud of himself, Sandor shoved his cellphone in his pocket with the feeling he had done something very grown-up and he grinned until the mass of flesh and scars near his mouth slightly hurt.

When Sansa knocked at his door, later that day, after he had closed the gym, he couldn’t wait to tell her about his plans - _our plans,_ he corrected himself in petto.

“The Elder Brother is coming for dinner on Friday,” he announced, excited like a kid, as Sansa walked to the kitchen. _Excited like a dog, perhaps,_ he told himself when she froze mid-stride and turned around to look at him, eyes widening in shock. _A dog wagging his tail because he’s fucking sure his mistress will pat his head._ Except that Sansa didn’t look pleased at all. He couldn’t miss her furrowed brow and that sort of incredulous gaze that involuntarily hurt him.

“Wait a minute, Sandor-”

“But you’re free on Friday night, I checked it on your schedule,” he protested. He now sounded like a kid, minus the high-pitched voice.

Sansa sighed, eyes closed, then lifted her hands as if she was trying to calm herself down. “So you invited him to have dinner with us?”

He nodded. _How the fuck was I supposed to guess she would be mad at me? Where did I screw up?_ “OK, OK, I got it,” he said, after a flash of inspiration. “You want me to ask you first before inviting someone. I’ll remember it next time.”

“It’s not the point- Well, yes, I’d like you to ask me first, but Sandor-” She closed her eyes again, then looked through the window instead of gazing at him. “The Elder Brother is my boss.”

“He’s my friend,” he retorted. “My closest friend. He comes here as a friend, he won’t talk about work with you or I swear I’ll stick my fork in his big red nose.”

Sansa heaved another sigh. “It’s not funny. You don’t seem to realize what it means. Nobody at the hospital - except him - knows I’m dating the Elder Brother’s best friend.”

“It’s an open secret, little bird. Everybody knows me in orthopedics,” he said smugly. “That’s what happens when you keep coming back for check-ups.”

“I just said I was dating someone , I didn’t tell them your name.”

Sandor shrugged, a poor attempt to hide his offended pride. “So you won’t tell them?”

“The day I’ll tell them I’m dating one of the patients, the girls will stare at me with a look that says _‘This is so cliché’_. When I’ll explain my date is the Elder Brother’s best friend, they’ll think strings were pulled to get me this job.” She folded her hands about her chest. “I don’t want them to think I’m a sort of teacher’s pet.”

“You’re not.”

She was hurt; he could tell it from the unshed tears in her eyes she tried to hide behind her loose hair when she hung her head. Disregarding his own feelings, he came closer and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. She stayed still under his touch, but he heard the slightest of sniffs.

“My whole life, I’ve been known as Eddard Stark’s daughter, Joffrey’s fiancee, then Baelish’s protegee. People never saw me for what I am, but for what I... represent,” she said bitterly. “An heir, a wealth holder, a well-dressed girl holding someone’s hand… For once I had a chance to be considered for what I’m good at - taking care of people. I don’t want them to think I got this job thanks to my connections.”

At a loss, he squeezed her shoulder. “Ask yourself two questions, girl. Did you hear anyone in this damn hospital whispering a nurse or some employee was the Elder Brother’s darling? The answer is no because the Elder Brother is not that kind of person. And do you feel the Elder Brother is any different towards you since we’re together?” She hook her head. “See. We won’t shout from the rooftops we have dinner with the Elder Brother but there’s no need to pretend it never happened either. And if people ever talk, let them talk.”

Under his fingers, he felt her shiver; the next second, she threw herself in his arms and held him tight, whispering: “You’re probably right.” She cried a bit, then wiped her tears silently and he instantly knew it was over: he had already noticed her outbursts never lasted long. Sansa craned her neck to look at him and inquired: “What do you plan to cook on Friday?” The little bird was always practical.

* * *

When she had moved past him in the kitchen, smelling of almond and flowers, wearing a floral printed dress which revealed the top of her breasts and most of her legs, he had stopped focusing on the rib roast and threatened to take her on the spot.

“Be good,” she had said, laughing at his wolfish smile and flicking his fingers.

Later, during the dinner, she had talked with the Elder Brother and joked about the vagaries of everyday life in the hospital; then she and the Elder Brother had turned to Sandor to tease him and Sandor had accepted their sarcasm about his habits and the _spartan comfort_ his house offered.

“You know he never actually invited me for dinner?” the Elder Brother informed Sansa before sipping his wine. “I told myself you had convinced him to do so when Sandor called me.”

“Actually it was his idea,” she answered, disguising her embarrassment between a smile. Protected from sight by the table, Sansa’s small hand landed on Sandor’s lap. At that moment, his elbows rested on the table; he glanced at the Elder Brother discreetly before shifting and placing his hand on hers, then he squeezed her fingers. Sansa gave him a fond smile and only moved her hand so that their fingers were intertwined, their hands hanging between their seats.

Single-handed, he nevertheless kept eating to pull the wool over the Elder Brother’s eyes. _It’s happening,_ he told himself. _One month ago I thought I would grow old on my own and now we’re holding hands under the table like two fucking teenagers._ Sansa’s thumb traced circles on the back of his hand; as they were sitting next to each other, facing the Elder Brother, Sandor knew it was a matter of time before the man noticed their clumsiness and how their shoulders bumped from time to time. Doing his best to remain stone-faced, he sought the slightest trace of amusement on his old friend’s features, until Sansa did something unexpected.

All of a sudden, her little hand escaped his grip and she put it on Sandor’s thigh, only a few inches from his cock. Forgetting the Elder Brother was observing them, he swiveled his head and gave Sansa a quizzical look; a smile on her face, she was listening to the Elder Brother who listed the most picturesque sites of around Quiet Isle. When she felt his gaze on her, she briefly glanced at him and her shy smile struck Sandor. Then, she turned her attention to the Elder Brother again and Sandor could have sworn she ignored him had her hand not slid between his thighs, leaving little room for imagination. His cock hardened instantly and he suppressed a sigh. _Fuck, what does she think she’s doing?_ He felt a slender finger rubbing his length, up and down, like a reminder of what he had done to her a few days before, when she was sitting on his couch, trying to focus on her notes. _What is it? Retaliation? Torture? No matter what it is, you’ll get what you deserve as soon as the Elder Brother shows a clean pair of heels._

He wondered if he was blushing or not and he did his best to regain his composure when Sansa announced it was time to eat dessert and walked to the kitchen.

When she disappeared, the Elder Brother couldn’t help chuckle.

“What?” Sandor asked, grumpy. What he needed right now was a cold shower and his own helplessness when it came to Sansa’s effect on his senses somehow infuriated him.

“Holding hands under the table, really?” the Elder Brother sighed, while Sandor poured some more wine in his glass. _At least he didn’t figure out Sansa was groping me._

He put down the bottle on the table a bit too forcefully and held his friend’s gaze. “And now you’re telling yourself I’m acting like a fucking kid.”

“Nope.” The Elder Brother leaned forward and whispered: “You’re acting like a kid who thinks he’s behaving like a grown up.”

“Even more pathetic, huh?” As if he toasted his own ability to make a fool of himself, Sandor raised his glass and drank his red wine.

“Pathetic, maybe… In this case, it warms my heart to see your pathetic behavior. Oh, here she comes.”

Sansa was back from the kitchen, carrying a lemon pie she had made herself. “So, who’s still hungry?” she asked playfully.

_I am, he thought, I’m starving when I see you wearing this dress and if the laws of hospitality authorized it, I swear I’d kick the Elder Brother out to have you for myself._ Sansa placed the pie on the table, cut it and daintily served everyone before sitting down next to him; when she did, Sandor wrapped his arm around her shoulders, surprising her. He noticed how she blushed because of his public display of affection, but after a while, she relaxed and leaned in. Her long hair brushed against the inner side of his arm, promising more caresses later. _Once we’re alone._

* * *

_Imagining this is a fucking video game, how many lives do I have?_

It sounded like a good idea, at first. He had only seen the convenience and the relief Sansa’s solution offered. Now he saw what he could have done. _What I should have done._ He had been stupid and so obsessed with material concerns he had overlooked the possibility of showing her what she meant for him. _Not that I ever was good at showing anything,_ he admitted bitterly, _but this time, I was such a moron I outdid myself._

It had started with a call from the roofer who had informed him he was too busy and the date they had set to check the house’s roof didn’t suit him anymore. “We have to postpone it,” he had told Sandor.

Sandor had reminded the man he worked late every day and couldn’t just leave the gym when he wanted to. If the damp patch he had noticed on the ceiling of the bathroom was a roof leak - and Sandor was bloody sure it was one - he didn’t want to wait before the roofer fixed it. At that moment, he was at his place with Sansa; the phone had rung while they were making out on the couch and it made the postponed appointment all the more annoying.

“Alright,” Sandor growled. “Why don’t you tell me when you can come? See, the roof is leaking, I’d bet my bottom dollar on it and I want you to fix it before it rains again.”

The roofer gave him bad, convoluted excuses: maybe he could come the next day, at 6:00 PM. _Great. He wants to come when there’s not a single locker left in the gym._ “Don’t you understand I run a gym? 6:00 PM is the busiest time. High school kids, employees, executives... everyone’s in the gym at 6. I can’t leave!”

As the man babbled his excuses, Sandor felt Sansa’s hand on his shoulder. “I leave the hospital after lunchtime tomorrow. I can be here at 6:00 PM, if you want,” she whispered.

He looked at her, incredulous and didn’t find anything to answer. Afterward, he would tell himself years on his own and the tenacious feeling he could only count on himself had made him unable to rely on others.

“So, what do you say?” she insisted, her blue eyes serious as ever although his inability to speak at this moment bordered on silliness and would have made anyone else laugh.

“Should I- should I give you a copy of my keys?”

She nodded. “In case he wants to see the attic? It’s settled, then.”

Scratching his head, he told the roofer there would be someone waiting for him at his place the next day, at 6:00 PM; the man mumbled it was about time and Sandor made an effort not to shout at him. _What’s wrong with me?_ he told himself as he shoved his cellphone in his backpocket. The roofer was a jerk, that was for sure, yet Sandor couldn’t quite place what irked him, beyond the sudden change of plans. Later, he gave Sansa the copy of keys he kept in the kitchen and shrugged at his own foolishness. _Nothing serious,_ he told himself, shrugging off his uneasiness. He saw in her eyes she didn’t understand the fuss he made about an appointment with the roofer and some keys, he perceived the hesitation as well, when her slender fingers curled around the keys. Did she wonder about his attitude? Did she imagine he gave her his keys with reluctance? As he couldn’t tell, he change the subject and called himself craven.

When he came back home, the next evening, the lights inside his house were a surprise; with all lights turned on, his house that looked more like a bear’s den sometimes seemed welcoming, almost a beacon in the night. After he got out of his truck, he stayed there, in his yard, listening to the humming of insects he couldn’t see in the dark, mesmerized by the lights he saw inside. A moth hovered over his face and he impatiently brushed it off. _Time to go inside._

He had actually never thought he would come in and find the radio turned on, the kitchen smelling of cheese and smoked bacon - was it pizza? He had never suspected there would be someone there, before his arrival, waiting for him.

“Ah, finally you’re here. I thought I’d make dinner for two before you came home. Maybe we’ll have some leftovers for tomorrow; frankly, I don’t see myself cooking something else for tomorrow’s lunch…” Her chirping always delighted Sandor, yet the confused sensation something was amiss still bothered him and ruined the moment.

“I saw the roofer,” she went on. “He said there’s a roof leak but nothing spectacular. I insisted and I reminded him you wanted this to be fixed as soon as possible. He’ll come back next week. Satisfied?” Planting herself in front of him and puckering up, she begged him for a kiss which he gave her gladly.

His hands lingered on her hips after she broke their kiss. “Thanks,” he said lamely, brushing aside her locks. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d waste your time shouting at not so obliging roofers and you’d eat out of cans,” Sansa replied mischievously.

“I cooked for our first real date!” he protested.

“Maybe... and I admit you impressed me, Sandor Clegane, but since that day, I have to beg you to help me with dinner.”

“You won. I’ll make dinner for you til the end of the month. Scout’s honor!” he said, holding up three fingers. Sansa burst out laughing. “So, what’s for dinner?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she suppressed a smile. “Look at you… the typical male who expects to be waited on. There’s quiche - with prunes because Old Nan always made it this way - and some salad, because the only kind of vegetable I can find in your fridge is lettuce.”

Whether their banter had drawn on attention on everything but his unease, Sandor couldn’t tell. They had dinner in the kitchen and he restrained himself from having another helping, lest Sansa had nothing for lunch the next day. He insisted to do the dishes, while she distractedly watched TV, then they went upstairs.

It was only later he realized what bothered him so much and it ate his peace of mind away. Sansa was asleep in his arms, her head pillowed by his chest and her leg resting on his thigh. As he lent an ear to her even breathing, like he had stayed outside earlier that night to listen to the bees and cicadas, a realization dawned upon him. _Wrong. I have it all wrong._

And suddenly he saw himself the day before, giving Sansa a copy of his keys. He noticed every detail of the scene, as if he floated outside of his big, clumsy body: Sansa’s eyes had widened ever so slightly when he had placed the keys in her palm and she had remained perfectly still for a second, wondering what to do before taking his keys and putting them in her purse. _She sensed it was important and I was so fucking pissed off by the asshole who’s never here when he’s needed, I didn’t realize what I was doing._

_I gave her more than a bunch of keys; I gave her the right to come here when she wants without knocking at the door. I gave her my trust. But I was too blind to see it._ Staring at the ceiling although he couldn’t make out anything in the dark, he gritted his teeth and hoped she couldn’t feel his muscles tense underneath her. _I gave her something I never gave anyone else and instead of doing this the right way, looking at her straight in the eyes and telling her how important it was, how important she is, I fucking did it offhandedly. Fuck me, I’m a hopeless case._

When Sansa mumbled something in her sleep, he instinctively drew the covers to her chin and wrapped his arm around her. She snuggled up to his chest, like she always did at night. _She doesn’t even resent me,_ he mused in disbelief. _I had one occasion to show her what she means for me and I screwed up everything. Imagining this is a fucking video game, how many lives do I have? I wasted one life by acting like giving her my keys was no big deal and it’s too late now, I can’t take back the words I should have said, but didn’t._

As shitty as the comparison with video games was, there was some truth in it. Beyond its childishness, he sensed the image wasn’t completely ridiculous: the keys were a perfect way to tell her how much he loved her without saying the words that terrified him. He had let the chance pass him by.

Sansa’s warmth against his skin, so exhilarating at first and so necessary now that they had been together for a few weeks, became slightly uncomfortable; he felt the weight of her head and upper body on his chest rather than the excitement of holding her. _I failed her._

_She didn’t say anything and she’ll probably never admit I disappointed her but deep down I know I did,_ he told himself, his chest constricting. _And I’d better do something to make up for it._


	9. Episode 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was harder to fall asleep when Sansa wasn’t there and he often found himself waking up in the middle of the night, reaching out to an empty space in the bed and sighing. After he had given her his keys, she once asked if she could come at his place at the end of her night shift, promising she would be quiet and try not to disturb his sleep. From that moment on, his nights alone when she was at the hospital were filled with anticipation and he would wake up at all hours, not because he missed her, but because she would be there soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... another chapter edited by Underthenorthernlights: a huge thank you to her.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking around and commenting!
> 
> Warning for adult themes.

Even years after his stay at Quiet Isle General Hospital, Sandor still associated the characteristic smell of disinfectant with bad memories. He had thought he would die the day he had ended up in the ER, years ago, after Arya had dumped him on the roadside. He had convinced himself the anxious face of the spotty kid with an intern’s uniform leaning over him and the lingering fragrance of the hospital would be the last sensations he would remember. He had never forgotten the faint smell of the meds, the distinctive odor of the disinfectant and even that of the detergent used to wash the sheets; he never would forget them. They always brought back the feeling he was vulnerable and he hated how the word sounded. _Vulnerable. Vul-ne-rable._

“Did you say something?” The nurse asked him suddenly, placing the band-aid on the crease of his elbow and rubbing it deftly.

“No. Yes. Are we done? I have to go back to work.”

“Just give this paper to the secretary and don’t remove this band-aid before an hour or so.” She gave him a shy smile, gazing at the good side of his face and avoiding to look at his scars.

Accustomed to the uneasiness his burns caused, Sandor forced out a “thank you,” pushed himself from the armchair and walked out of the room; he waited a few minutes at the front desk of the clinical lab, looking at the band-aid in the crease of his elbow, then he paid and left.

Once outside, Sandor heaved a sigh and decided he needed a smoke. He headed to his truck, opened the door and rummaged inside the glove box until he found his cigarettes. He smoked less and less now that Sansa had joined the Elder Brother’s crusade against tobacco: this morning, though, he couldn’t do without it. He grunted with contentment when he found the packet, shut the truck door and leaned against it to enjoy what would be his first cigarette in three days.

Sandor gazed at the expanse of lawn separating the lab’s parking lot from the main building of the hospital and his thoughts came back to Sansa. _This is important. It would be insignificant in different circumstances but now that Sansa’s here, it’s important. So many negligible things have become important lately._ He dragged on his cigarette, his eyes half-closed, telling himself he had made the right choice, listening to the singing of birds the distant engine of a car couldn’t drown out. Staring at the gravel of the parking lot, he was mentally reviewing what he had to do at the gym when he heard a familiar voice.

“What are you doing here?”

He pushed himself off the side of the truck, turned around and spotted Sansa on the other side; she walked around the truck and planted herself in front of him. Under her white coat, she wore the jeans and the blouse he had seen on her when she had left his house at dawn.

“What are you doing here?” he replied, caught off guard as he walked over to the nearby outdoor ashtray. He snuffed the cigarette out in the sand and walked back and stood in front of Sansa.

“I work here. Remember? A doctor sent me to the lab to ask something… Whatever… I told myself you were here to pay me a visit, but apparently-” She gestured at the band-aid in the crease of Sandor’s elbow. “-you came here for something else.” Her words inflected at the end of the sentence, showing her concern.

“This is nothing,” he replied disguising his awkwardness behind a smile that didn’t fool her, if her furrowed brow was any indication.

“Hey, Sansa!” A woman called from the entrance of the lab. “Did Doctor Patel changed his mind?” Instead of waiting for Sansa’s answer, the woman, visibly another nurse, walked toward them. “Are you going to introduce me?” She giggled, careless of Sansa’s unease.

“Mona, my boyfriend, Sandor,” Sansa recited. She did less than a satisfactory job at hiding her concern under a polite smile. “Mona works at the lab, but you probably already meet her since you just took some blood test.” Her last words were laced with bitterness.

_I’m not trying to hide something from you. Quite the opposite..._

“We didn’t,”  Mona replied. “I’m not the only nurse working here. So... Doctor Patel didn’t change his mind, Sansa? Holy crap!” _Are you going to leave us, now that you got your answer, you dirty sneak?_ The woman didn’t move and smiled quite stupidly.

“Are you ill, Sandor?” Sansa asked him in an undertone, enunciating every syllable, and he imagined her tone was the same when she addressed her patients. He could almost hear her: ‘Your treatment should be taken more seriously, Mrs. J.’

“No, I’m not.” As reassuring as he sounded, he knew he failed convincing her when her blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Listen, we’ll talk about it at my place or at yours, if you want. Tonight.”

She shook her head. “I told you my co-workers invited me. Girls’ night out.”

_Fuck._ “I’m not free tomorrow. I told you about Brienne, the girl who practices every day at the gym, right? She’s taking part to a non-professional competition and we’re supposed to visit the boxing arena after the gym’s closed. I can’t reschedule this.”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter.” Sansa took a step back and shrugged ever so slightly. Something in her blue eyes belied her words and her supposedly casual attitude. Under her ballet flats, the gravel scrunched.

Ruing the intrusion of the nurse who stood there, looking at them, soaking everything up like a sponge, Sandor reached out for her arm and stilled her. “We’ll talk about this the day after tomorrow. I’ll text you.”

She nodded. Watching creases on her pretty little forehead made his heart sank. _Shit._ Ignoring the other woman, he took Sansa in his arms and kissed her eagerly. After he broke their kiss, he didn’t loosen his grip on her and whispered against her ear: “I’m fine. Have fun with your friends tonight and we’ll talk about this later.” He felt her fisting the fabric of his T-shirt, then pulling away.

_Hope she doesn’t think I hugged her because I’m sick or something,_ he mused as the two women walked toward the entrance of the lab. Right before crossing the threshold, Sansa glanced back at him over her shoulder. From where he was, he could tell she was anxious.

* * *

 

“So what is it today?” The Elder Brother’s tone conveyed a kind of irony Sandor didn’t expect from him. “I’ve got this sign on my office door saying I’m an orthopaedic specialist but I should perhaps replace it by one saying I give free advice in case of heartache.”

“Good evening to you too,” Sandor rasped. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Forgive me if I don’t ask you the same thing, I know you’re probably in the throes of passion or else you wouldn’t have called me.”

Sandor pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Sorry, I don’t want to bother you but I just wanted to know if Sansa is OK.”

The silence stretched on the other end, then the Elder Brother replied: “She wasn’t as smiling as she usually is, today. Why? What have you done this time?”

Clenching and unclenching his left hand, Sandor suppressed the urge to shout he had done nothing wrong and instead, he told him what had happened earlier that day.

“She lost almost everyone she cared for,” the Elder Brother said. “Save her youngest brother and an uncle she barely knew before, from what I can gather. She thought she had lost you. You can expect her to worry every time you cough or sneeze. Just talk to her.”

After his friend hung up, Sandor sent her a text telling her to have fun and asking if she wanted to come over the day after tomorrow. Sansa answered right away, saying she would be there for dinner. He then dragged his feet to the garage and turned on the light. Hidden behind his truck, a metallic table and its two matching chairs waited for a second coat of white paint. Two or three years before, he had bought the vintage patio furniture for a ridiculously low amount in an open air rummage sale, then he had forgotten his purchase in the garage. Sandor had had the idea of repainting and offering it to Sansa once he had given her the keys of his house: he still believed he could have given her the keys with more ceremony and a gift for no particular occasion seemed like the right thing to do.

He stopped by the table and brushed the painted surface with his fingers; it was dry now and smooth. Removing rust with a wire brush and filling in the tiny holes had taken him one evening and he had worked in secret, during Sansa’s last night shift. Then he had applied the first coat of paint.

The patio table already looked nice with its whitish paint and he smirked at the notion it was more her style than his. _When I bought this, I thought I’d never see her again, but… somehow I chose this for Sansa._ _She’ll take her breakfast on this table during summer. Or her afternoon tea if she wants. She’ll put this on the small sundeck of her apartment or she’ll leave this here, if it makes her feel at home. Whatever she wants._ He walked back inside the house, put on an old T-shirt and a pairs of jeans he used whenever he had home improvements to do and tackled his task.

* * *

Harrenhal’s boxing arena was a small one, yet the silence inside that night made Sandor slightly uncomfortable. Like everyone, he had heard the urban legend about the place. He used to laugh about it when he was in the Quiet Isle but now he loved to frighten his little bird with the story of the ghost of Harrenhall. _A good excuse for her to throw her arms around me._ Being there, in one of the aisles, gave him an unobstructed view on the worn-out seats and further, on the ring lit by old, yellowish spotlights. _Sinister._ Sandor gazed nonchalantly at the bald man who had welcomed them.

“You guys want to see the dressing rooms, I guess,” the man said, waving his bunch of keys. Podrick had not been able to get away that night and as Barristan Selmy, who had enrolled Brienne to the amateur competition, was bedridden, Sandor was the only person Brienne could take with her to Harrenhal. As Sandor didn’t move, Brienne turned around and mouthed ‘Come on!’; he dragged his feet down the aisle and towards the hallways of the arena.

After a never-ending perambulation in dark hallways, the bald man opened a door and showed them the room where Brienne would prepare herself before the match. It smelled of dirty socks and stale tobacco.

“I would have sworn there was a _‘Thank You For Not Smoking’_ sign in the hallway,” Brienne pointed out. That was one of the things Sandor disliked about her. _Her disdainful air when she knows she’s right and her fucking ability to press right where it hurts._ In this case, when he saw the man’s smug smile fade away, he almost wanted to pat her on the back.

The man mumbled pathetic explanations about how important it was to open the windows from time to time and Sandor smirked at the sight of Brienne rolling her blue eyes. Then they walked back to the boxing ring and Sandor observed the equipment with mild interest. If it wasn’t for Brienne and the upcoming boxing match, he could have been home with Sansa. Instead, the little bird was at her place, probably watching some crappy movie while he was there...

“... Sandor. Earth calling Sandor. Is anyone there?” Brienne asked. Roused from his thoughts, he turned to her. “The gentleman asks you if you need to see something else,” she said, her unctuous tone making the question almost insulting. Brienne smiled from ear to ear, showing her prominent teeth.

“No- I’m good, thank you.”

“I guess we’re done here, then,” the man said, lifting his arms with relief. He was visibly happy to walk them out.

Once they were both in Brienne’s car, she swiveled her head to look at him. In the confined space of the car, he couldn’t miss her coarse features exuding at this very moment all her exasperation. “You shouldn’t have come if you had better things to do, you know,” she sighed.

“Did I say I had better things to do?” he growled, annoyed by the hint of reproach in her voice.

“You don’t need to. You miss your girlfriend, it’s plain to see.” Silence stretched in the car as Brienne didn’t turn on the ignition. “Can I ask you something, Sandor? This boxing match, in two weeks... It’s everything I ever wanted. So will you be here to support me or do I need to ask someone else to put ice on my bruises and give me my mouthguard?”

“I’ll be there!” he replied. “Listen, I know I could have shown more interest tonight, but…”

“But you’d rather spend your night with her than with me. How understandable.” She ran her fingers through her flaxen hair, then turned the key; the engine roared and Sandor sat back, heaving a sigh. “Will I see your mysterious girlfriend at the boxing match, by the way? I heard she stopped by at the gym, but never got to see her.”

Sandor nodded. “Yep. She’s even more excited than I am,” he said, before wishing he could swallow his words.

“Well,” Brienne commented, deftly going into reverse to exit the parking spot, “that’s not very difficult.”

* * *

 

Sansa wore a pretty sundress when she arrived at his place 24 hours later. The dark red, almost brown fabric complimented her pale skin and her messy bun brought out her slender neck. He could tell she was a bit nervous when she stammered her excuses about the way she had parked her car in his driveway.

“This is fine. I don’t expect anyone else,” he reassured her. He wasn’t exactly overconfident though. “Want to eat something?” he offered her, thinking of the torn open envelope he had left in the kitchen: it contained the results of his blood test.

“Shouldn’t we talk, first?” Sansa inquired, fidgeting with her car keys. “I’m not that hungry.”

He took the keys from her, put them in the trinket bowl with his and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let’s have a seat in the kitchen then.” With an incline of his head, he motioned her inside the kitchen, and gestured at a chair while he walked to the small niche where he kept bills and mail. Under Sansa’s watchful gaze, he took the envelope with the name of the lab on it and he handed it out to her.

“Go ahead. You’re more familiar with blood tests than I am,” he rasped softly.

She swallowed hard, retrieved the paper from the envelope and read. At some point, her expression changed and she dropped the paper. “Why are you showing me this? This is none of my business.”

“It is. You have a right to know why I insisted on using condoms.  Now I know I’ve got no gonorrhea, no chlamydia-”

“I see,” she cut him off. “You’ve got no VD. Fine. That’s why you did that blood test, two days ago.” It sounded more like a statement than like a question; he nodded and sat down on the chair opposite to her.

As she still avoided his gaze, he extended his arms across the table to take her hands in his. “I wanted to be sure,” he explained, gently squeezing her fingers. “And I want to be honest with you. I’ve been with women before you. Three months ago, I spent the night with a woman I barely knew and-”

She shook her head with something akin to obstination. “I don’t want the details, Sandor. I don’t how you feel about my ex husband but I just don’t want to know anything about the women you were with. It makes me sick.”

His jaw dropped slowly; learning that she, Sansa Stark, a girl much too pretty for him was in all likelihood jealous of the women he had fucked was nothing less than surprising. “I trust you,” he began, feeling awkward. “That’s why I gave you my keys. Now I want you to be able to trust me. Hence the blood test.”

For long seconds, he tried to make eye contact with her, to no avail; then he felt her fingers moving under his and she finally raised her head. Oddly enough, a shy smile pulled the corners of her lips.

“You want me to make a blood test too?” she asked.

“No need to make one. You nurses and doctors get tested on a regular basis. Learned that thanks to the Elder Brother.” She nodded, stared down at the envelope again. “I guess we don’t need condoms anymore, now…” he went on, feeling like he was the dumbest man who had ever dated a girl.

Sansa snorted. “Your unconventional flirting techniques keep surprising me, Sandor Clegane. Joffrey asked someone to buy flowers for me and Harry copied poems he had found on the Internet on Valentine’s day cards. You- You make me read the results of your blood test and you talk about condoms to show how much you… care for me.”

He could tell she had stopped short from saying ‘you love me’, because he had never been able to say the words she probably expected. He gritted his teeth. _Probably made a fool of myself but at least, she understands why I did this._ “I couldn’t tell you anything the other day, with that woman listening to us.”

“I know.” Her blue eyes shone a bit too much now and he suspected she fought back tears. “Let’s eat something,” she said cheerfully. “Not that I’m starving but a sandwich would be welcome.” She jumped from her chair, walked to the fridge and inspected it while he retrieved the white bread from a cupboard. He made two big cheese sandwiches and two smaller ones with peanut butter, placed them on a tray with a beer for him and a bottle of water for Sansa and carried the tray out of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged. “You’ll see. Can you open the French window and turn the lights on?” She followed him on the terrace, then she spotted the repainted patio furniture. “It’s for you,” he explained. “Thought you might need a table and some chairs to take your breakfast outside, at your apartment. Hope you don’t mind if we use it tonight…”

Sansa squealed in excitement, examined the table although it was pitch dark and the outdoor lamps didn’t light it properly. She asked him where he had bought it, went into raptures when he told her he had given a new lease of life to something he had found in a rummage sale.

“But when did you find the time to do this?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised how boring a night can be when I’m here and you’re stuck at the hospital.”

He still carried the tray and Sansa suddenly seemed to realize it. Slightly embarrassed but laughing all the same, she took the tray from his hands, put it on the table and planted herself in front of him. “You can keep shoving blood test results in my face and talking about condoms and such as long as you are _this_ man, Sandor. This is probably the loveliest present I ever received. Instead of buying something expensive you spent time repainting this and- and it’s unique. Like you.”

Standing on her tiptoes, she snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him. When he lifted her in his arms, she protested mildly against his mouth, probably concerned about his old wound; he didn’t care though. Still holding her, he took a step back to lean against the wall while she wrapped her legs around his middle. _Fuck, this is good._ It was like finding her again and as his tongue explored her mouth, he realized how much he had missed not only since the morning he had accidentally met her outside the lab, but pretty much since the fuss he had made all by himself about his keys. Sansa ignored how stupid he had felt - or so he believed - but when she broke their kiss to give him a curious look, he wondered if she knew what kind of emotional roller-coaster he had been on.

“Are you OK?” she whispered, before nibbling at his mouth again.

He nodded and gently set her back on her feet. “Want me to bring these at your apartment next time I stop by?” he asked, gesturing at the patio furniture.

“Hmm… No,” she replied. “I don’t have much space out there. Besides.. they look perfect here. It would be a crime to remove them from your terrace.”

“Isn’t it strange if your gift stays here?”

She shook her head in a girlish way. “I’m not sure I’ll allow you to sit on one of these chairs without me being present, but… yes, I want all this to stay here. I’ll have a nice spot to take my breakfast tomorrow.”

“You don’t like the kitchen table?” he rasped, feigning disappointment. “Too bad… there are things we can do on the kitchen table we can’t on a small, metallic patio table like this one…” He grabbed her hips and pulled her close, fisting the fabric of her dress in the process.

She grinned and by the way she closed and opened her eyes repeatedly he guessed she was racking her brains to find the right answer. He didn’t expect her reply to leave him speechless though. “Maybe I’ve got a solution. Do you ever lie down on the decking?” she asked. “Because… you know, with a blanket…” She was flushed against him, waiting for his reaction with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

Sandor gawked and it took him a few seconds to be able to say: “Are you fucking kidding me?” He was all the more surprised as she had become cautious and even a bit shy after she had showed up at the gym wearing lingerie.

“What? You never made it right here on the decking? Why buy a house that is not overlooked, then?”

He chuckled. “You like it outdoors?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

He hesitated a second, looking down at the girl who drove him mad and made him behave like a fucking teenager. _Sandwiches won’t get cold I guess._

* * *

It was harder to fall asleep when Sansa wasn’t there and he often found himself waking up in the middle of the night, reaching out to an empty space in the bed and sighing. After he had given her his keys, she once asked if she could come at his place at the end of her night shift, promising she would be quiet and try not to disturb his sleep. From that moment on, his nights alone when she was at the hospital were filled with anticipation and he would wake up at all hours, not because he missed her, but because she would be there soon.

Sansa was usually exhausted after a night at the hospital and when she came back at dawn, tiptoeing in his house, she was hardly able to kiss him before crawling in between the sheets and resting her head on his chest.

That night, he had thought it would be the same: she would come in silently and nestle against him, quickly falling asleep. Perhaps she closed the front door a bit more forcefully than the previous times though, perhaps her pace was faster as she came upstairs; he had woken up and now he stared up at the ceiling, keeping his ears open.

There was something amiss, he realized it now, for she was always extra careful when she opened the bedroom door; this time however, the door creaked and she muffled an expletive. Sandor turned on the bedside lamp and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Head hanging and sniffing, she didn’t say anything and took off her sweater; she tossed it to the floor. _What the fuck-_ This display of carelessness was so unlike her whatever he was about to say died on his tongue. He saw her running a clumsy hand down her cheek but he couldn’t see her face hidden by her loose hair. Seemingly forgetting about the clean T-shirt and the pj shorts she kept in his closet, she stood there for a second, hugging herself in her tank top and skater skirt; then, she raised her head just enough to lock eyes with him. Judging by her still wet cheeks, she had been crying.

“Are you OK?” he managed to ask but he got no answer.

She wiped her tears again, looking more angry now than really sad and did something he didn’t expect. Staring at him and biting her bottom lip, she slipped her hands under her skirt and hastily removed her panties before climbing on the bed. The mattress depressed next to Sandor as she crawled toward him and his cock twitched.

“What happened?” he whispered, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. _Put aside whatever your cock says and talk to her._ He sucked in a deep breath; she was already straddling him.

She fleetingly laid her forehead upon his, then mumbled: “I don’t want to talk, now.” What she wanted was plain to see: she claimed his lips and ground herself against him. Through the fabric of her tank top, he felt her tits brushing his cheek as she straightened herself.

“Anything you want,” he said, answering her kisses and her heated touch.

It wasn’t enough, most likely, for she yanked at the sheet that was in her way, angrily removing it, and she reached between them. Without a word, she freed his cock from his boxers, gave it a long pull: under her ministrations he became hard as rock in no time.

“I want you,” she said under her breath. “I need you.”

Between kisses, Sandor tried to take off her tank top; she stopped caressing him and obliged him, pulling the top over her head before running her fingers through his hair. He hurriedly reached behind her back, unhooked her bra and found himself with her full breast in the cup of his hand. Sansa moaned, begging for more; he hitched up the skirt she still wore, brushed the inner side of her thigh and slid a finger between her folds. Sansa locked eyes with him; in the dull sphere of light coming from the bedside lamp, she seemed as provocative as she was sad a minute earlier, the trail left by mascara and tears on her cheeks being the only proof of her outburst.

At that moment, she must have lost patience for she lifted herself ever so slightly before sitting on his cock, never breaking eye contact.

Once inside her, he grabbed her hips by reflex, but he soon renounced to guide her because her movements, back and forth, stated that she was setting the pace, not him. Instead, he focused on her breasts, sucking avidly one then the other. He felt, more than he saw her body arch. _She needs more than this._ That certainty made him pull his head back gently; his mouth still on her nipple, he gave it the slightest of tugs with his lips, eliciting a faint “oh” of protestation.

_She needs more._ No matter what had happened to Sansa that night, he would give her what she wanted at that moment. He slid a hand under her skirt and rubbed the spot between her legs that never failed to make her weak: she arched her back even more under his touch. As her moaning became louder, he understood her release was close. _Faster,_ he thought, rubbing her with more energy; he could come anytime now but he tried to restrain himself as long as she didn’t climax.

Her movements lost their regular pace, became more spasmodic and a strangled sound escaped her lips; she called him, softly, whispering his name. _As if it was my turn now,_ he told himself. Head tossed back in pleasure, she kept riding him for a few seconds before she became limp in his arms. He then seized her hips again and pounded inside her, groaning, until his own release came. Abrupt and intense, it overwhelmed him and he had the impression he was mumbling incoherent words.

In the lustful haze he was in afterward, he felt Sansa’s head resting in the crook of his neck and her bust leaning against him. She panted, just like him and she was holding him tightly. After a while, she shifted, crawled out of the bed and took of her skirt. Without a word, she walked to his closet, found her T-shirt and slipped it on. He saw her freeing her long hair from the collar of her T-shirt in a deft movement, then she came back to bed.

Sandor lay down, taking in the sight the girl who had just thrown herself on him and who now clutched the sheet up to her chin, a feeble, almost sheepish smile gracing her lips. He wondered if she would explain something to him or she would leave it at that. Confused, he turned off the light.

Sniffing, she shifted against him, as if she couldn’t find the right position and finally snuggled up to him and rested her head on his chest, her hand finding its place on his stomach. A grateful sigh welcomed the arm he wrapped around her.

“It was a bad night,” she said abruptly. “We lost a patient. Motorcycle accident. I know how strange all this-”

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he cut her off. With his free hand, he brushed her jaw line. “No need to explain yourself... How is the Elder Brother doing?”

She sighed again. “He’s not- He’s not well. Although he didn’t say anything. I know he must feel terrible right now. Perhaps you can call him tomorrow.”

Silence stretched in the bedroom; Sandor asked himself how many hours remained before his alarm rang. “You sure you’re OK?”

“I’ll feel better tomorrow,” she promised. “It’s just that all I could think about while driving here was… I wanted to be with you. I’m sorry I woke you up-”

“Some guys would kill to get woken up this way,” he teased her. As he chuckled, she elbowed him, then he heard her laughter, a tad nervous, at first, then as candid as ever.

It was good to know she was able to laugh, even after the shitty night she had had. They held each other in silence, and in the end, he decided what he had to say couldn’t wait any longer. “Hey, you know I’m here for you, right?”

He felt Sansa’s head nodding against his chest, then, very slowly, her lips brushed his skin, eliciting goosebumps he would have tried to hide, years ago; now he was past caring about what was manly and what was not. “Unlike you, I don’t have a tattoo stating it,” she whispered, “but I’m here for you too, Sandor."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Rickon returns....


	10. Episode 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s back stretched, then bent; under the soft, ivory skin he restrained himself from kissing, her spin seemed to undulate. She arched her back again, slowly, one vertebra moving after the other. Must be the most beautiful thing on Earth and it’s a shame the lighting is so shitty. One of his hands left her hips to trace the dip of her waist, eliciting a tiny moan when he probably tickled her. Her skin was smooth underneath his fingers, and he wished he could map every curve, every beauty spot on her back. Further, her shoulder blades moved as she tried to find her balance on the bed. One of the said shoulder blades almost disappeared under red locks. Red. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge 'thank you' to Underthenorthernlights, who beta read this chapter!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting.
> 
> In this chapter like in next one, Rickon is back. ‘My’ version of this character might be different from the ones you read so far - or from your headcanon - but there’s room enough for several interpretations, right?
> 
> As a side note, I apologize in advance to the fans of Coldplay - it will make sense later - and I confess I’ve been a great fan of Cold War Kids… before Mine Is Yours.

Sansa’s back stretched, then bent; under the soft, ivory skin he restrained himself from kissing, her spin seemed to undulate. She arched her back again, slowly, one vertebra moving after the other. _Must be the most beautiful thing on Earth and it’s a shame the lighting is so shitty._ One of his hands left her hips to trace the dip of her waist, eliciting a tiny moan when he probably tickled her. Her skin was smooth underneath his fingers, and he wished he could map every curve, every beauty spot on her back. Further, her shoulder blades moved as she tried to find her balance on the bed. One of the said shoulder blades almost disappeared under red locks. _Red. Again._ Thick and glossy, although disheveled, her red hair mesmerized him and for a split second he could have forgotten why he had carried her to the bed and hastily undressed. Or why she was on her hands and knees and he was behind her.

She sported the most wicked smile when she glanced at him around her shoulder and said: “I thought you couldn’t wait. What are you doing?” Her eyes drifted away from his face, drawing an imaginary line down his chest, taking in his abs and staring at his groin.

“Admiring the view,” he growled, spurred by the notion she was doing exactly the same. Sansa’s eyes flickered up to his features, then she blew a red strand out of her face and bit her lip before steadying her gaze in front of her, on the headboard. There was something downright provocative in the way she seemed to ignore him: a heartbeat later she ground herself against him. Fuck. “You’ll be the death of me, girl.”

In retaliation he tightened his grip on her hipbone and positioned himself at her opening. She moaned softly when he thrusted inside her. _This is not fucking possible._ Sansa’s hair was red again and he was taking her like he had always wanted to. When she’s on her hands and knees. Her red hair fanning out across the mattress would have turned him on too but this was his fantasy, the scene he had played over and over in his mind. _Her red hair, her naked back and my hands on her hips. Maybe God exists after all._

It had started with a text from Sansa he had received earlier that day when he was at the gym, after he had fixed the shower in the locker room - something he hated, plumbing had never been his thing. The text was short enough to be intriguing - it simply read _“I have a surprise for you”_ \- and he had spent the rest of the day wondering what could be this fucking surprise. A brand-new coffee pot for the mornings when he got up on the wrong side of the bed? A button-down shirt, maybe? A few days before, Sansa had threatened him with a whole afternoon of shopping, not for her but for him.

Later, another text had excited his curiosity even more. _“I know you’ll like my surprise. Perhaps I should send you a picture… But then there would be no surprise.”_

All of a sudden, the brand-new coffee-pot seemed like the stupidest idea ever and he had more and more trouble focusing on all the things he had to do before leaving the gym and meeting her at his place.

She was already there when he parked his truck in the driveway and as he often did now, he stayed outside, gazing at the kitchen’s lights through the window for a second or two in the dark. When he came in, he heard the radio playing in the main room; the creaking of the front door might have warned her he had arrived for she turned off the radio and walked to the hallway to meet him.

“Surprise!” she said gleefully, striking a pose in her floral sundress. It was a surprise indeed: her dull brown hair had disappeared and red locks framed her oval face, shining under the strong light of the bulb that had never seen a lampshade.

The sight of her with her natural hair color must have made his jaw drop, according to Sansa’s fit of laughter. “You should see your face!” she told him. With short, slow steps, she crossed the distance remaining between them, caressed his stubble and kissed him lightly. “Do you like it?”

“Hell, yeah. This is- This is-” His words fled him and he felt like a complete moron under her fond gaze. “What- I mean why did you… You know?”

“Why did I dye my hair?” she asked, trying to fill in the blanks. “Well… I didn’t work this afternoon so I went to the hairdresser.”

“But why…?” He gestured at her hair and finally dared run his fingers through it. It felt silky and the rich color of her strands against his tanned phalanxes brought him back seven years earlier when she was Joffrey’s girlfriend and him his dog.

She shrugged. “Why not? I told myself you would like it.” He nodded at that and ducked his head to bury his nose in her hair. It smelled of the hairdresser’s shampoo: not unpleasant but unfamiliar. Sandor prefered the scent of Sansa’s conditioner he now recognized instantly. He nevertheless left a trail of kisses on her temple, her earlobe and further down, her neck. “Hmm,” she sighed. In the periphery of his vision, he saw her mouth opening and closing, a smile pulling up the corners of her lips. _She’s trying to focus and tell me something,_ he mused, before stopping his ministrations.

“What were you about to say?” he asked her in hushed tones.

She grinned, eyes closed for a second; he had often seen her doing this when she felt embarrassed. “Maybe it was time for me to go back to my natural hair color,” she answered softly.

There were things she kept for herself and he told himself that from the moment he had run into her at the hospital, almost two months ago, she had perhaps solved some of the issues that poisoned her life so far. Sandor didn’t know if he had played a part in this; if so, should he feel proud? _Fuck, I don’t want to think about all this now._

By common consent, they hurried through dinner, Sandor staring at her as if he was starving. _No need to talk: she knows what I have in mind._ Their unspoken agreement included not doing the dishes so they left the dirty plates in the sink and walked - or rather ran - upstairs.

“I had no idea hair color could have this effect on men,” Sansa teased him, as he stripped her from her clothes.

And now that he thrusted inside her, now that her release - and his - was closer than ever, he knew he would later replay the events of this night over and over again in his mind.

A minute later, they both collapsed on the bed, Sansa rolling on her side to look at him. She barely let him catch his breath before commenting: “You never did this before. Why?”

“You didn’t like it?” he asked tongue in cheek. He already knew the answer.

“You know I did.” Propping herself on her elbow, she jabbed a finger at his chest. “I want to know why this happened tonight.”

“Because you’re red. Again,” he rasped. He disguised his embarrassment behind raucous laughter. _I looked for you in every redhead I ran into for the last seven years, but do you need to know that?_

Sansa rolled her eyes and wound her fingers in her long hair. “You see this?” she began, her eyes moving between him and her copper-colored hair. “This is not red, this is auburn.”

“Oh.” He drew her close until she straddled him. “Sorry if I insulted your natural hair color, Miss Stark. Auburn sounds much more classy than red. A bit snooty, too.”

Feigning outrage, she flicked his fingers and he laughed heartily. “I’ll get you for that, Sandor!”

“Whenever you want,” he mouthed. She was already sitting up, her legs on either side of his middle. For once, she towered above him, her red hair framing her oval face, cascading on her shoulders: there was something challenging in her look as her pretended haughtiness had not completely disappeared. “You look changed,” he went on. “A tad bossy, like this.” One arm under his head, he stared at her, a smile playing about his lips.

She arched an eyebrow. “You don’t like it?” It was a rhetorical question, most likely, and her inquiring tone didn’t fool him. The pressure of her thighs against his waist increased pleasantly.

Sandor replied in a whisper: “You could ask anything of me right now. You know it, girl.”

Her pretty little face disappeared behind a curtain of red locks as she suppressed a giggle. “Well, that’s a piece of luck: I have a favor to ask.”

“You have my attention.”

“Rickon called me last night and said he’d like to pay me visit. He’ll stay a week or so.”

_Rickon…_ Sandor remembered a lanky teenager, taller than his elder sister, and much too curious for his own good. _The brat wouldn’t stop pulling my leg._ And suddenly, he asked himself what the favor Sansa was about to ask him could be.

“Rickon doesn’t have a car yet - Uncle Brynden says he would probably crash it in no time - so one of his friends who’s going to some rock festival will drop him here tomorrow afternoon.” Her embarrassment bordered on sheepishness. “Could you- could you, you know, pick him up and keep an eye on my little brother before I come back from the hospital?” Full of hope now, she locked eyes with him. “Pretty please?”

Sandor closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. “You want me to babysit your sixteen-year-old brother?”

A mere shrug was the first answer he got. “That’s one way of looking at things…” she commented. “I know you’re busy at the gym and you barely know my brother but I can’t leave the hospital during my shift. I wouldn’t ask you if I had not tried to talk one of my colleagues into changing her shift with mine. As it turns out, she can’t.”

“What would I have to gain by doing you this favor?” he asked, deepening his voice on purpose and gripping her hips.

Sansa bit her lip at once to disguise her grin. “As I have the coolest boyfriend, I guess I would find a way to thank him,” she purred, lowering herself and claiming his lips. He was soon blinded by the red locks that tickled his cheeks and his temples. When she pulled away from him, she looked satisfied as if she anticipated his positive response.

“Fine, I’ll do it for you.” Her grin deepened. “But… I can’t help thinking you’re using sex to get what you want,” he added, gloating over her shocked reaction. Her tiny gasp made him laugh. “I know you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You coax me to babysit your brother and behind your innocent look, you use sex so that I pander to your every whim.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered before kissing his lips again. “And a hypocrite at that. Who uses sex to make me come back in his house night after night? You, not me.”

Sandor chuckled and pulled her close; he was thinking of flipping her on her back when she broke their kiss. “And… there’s something I forgot to tell you.” Despite her smile, her tone conveyed a sort of hesitation he didn’t like. “Rickon will stay at my apartment as long as he’s here in Quiet Isle so… I will have to stay with him.”

“You mean you’re going to ask for a few days off?”

She shook her head. “No! I just started working at the hospital, I can’t do that! I mean… I won’t spend the night here.”

She must be kidding. “So what? Your brother arrives, and we can’t see each other?”

“Of course we can! We can have dinner together. The three of us.”

_The more the merrier. Great._ His features probably exuded frustration for she brushed his cheek apologetically. “Look, Sandor…”

“You’re going to tell me I can’t sleep at your place either, right?” he snorted.

She sighed. “My uncle accidentally walked in on him with his girlfriend the other day. They were engaged in some heavy action on the couch.”

“That’s what kids of his age usually do, Sansa.”

“Did I tell you he almost got expelled last year for shouting at a teacher? You probably think it’s stupid, but still… he’s a kid and Uncle Brynden and I are his only role models. What kind of message are we sending if we’re having sex in my bedroom when he’s sleeping on the couch?” she asked.

“A message that says you’re a grown-up,” Sandor retorted. “According to you, what does your brother think we’re doing at night? 3000 piece puzzle sets? Crosswords? The kid is not a fool: he knew we would end up together before we realized it.” A long time ago, he would have yelled at her because she was being a hypocrite; now frustration replaced anger and the doubts he had managed to keep at bay crept in his mind again. _She doesn’t accept her feelings for you,_ a little voice said. _She might kiss you when you’re alone, she wishes she could lock you in a closet when her family is around..._

“Before you say anything,” Sansa began, “I told Rickon and my uncle I was dating you - not that it was a big surprise for them - and I told them our relationship was a serious one.” Sometimes he asked himself if she could read his mind or if he was that predictable.

Another kiss, slow and more passionate than the previous ones, overcame his doubts. “Rickon knows you’re my boyfriend and he expects to spend some time with you because we’re together. Now I don’t ask you to understand why I’d rather sleep on my own as long as my brother’s here. You made your point, I know how you feel about it. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you: quite the contrary.” She snuggled up to his chest. “I just ask you not to be mad at me. I’m trying to act in the interests of my little brother.”

Sandor remained silent for long seconds and he felt her body tense against him as she waited for his reaction with bated breath. Then he cocked his head to the side and kissed her forehead.

“You’re not mad at me?” Relief laced her words.

“Nope.” After another silence, not quite as long this time, he flipped her on her back and stared at her, propped on one elbow, before pinning her wrists down to the mattress.

“What are you doing?” she protested. The hint of apprehension in her tone was just enough to spur him and to make him hard as rock.

Towering above her, he never broke eye-contact. “This is going to be a very long week,” he said, his speech deliberately slow. “If I can’t touch you when the little brat is here, I intend to take you as many times as I can before he arrives.” The sight of goosebumps on her upper arms made him smile inwardly. She was looking at him, her mouth ajar. “Mark my words, girl. You can expect me to be insatiable once he’ll head back North.”

* * *

_This is fucking ridiculous,_ he scolded himself. _You spent years babysitting Joffrey - even if his crazy mother called you a bodyguard. Not any kid: Joffrey Baratheon. This boy is a Stark, Eddard Stark’s youngest son and the worst he did so far was make you feel stupid the day Sansa moved, so stop being a pussy about it._ Getting out of his truck, Sandor folded his arms across his chest and stared at the car which had just arrived. The car - a japanese one with a filthy hood and rust spots on the wing - had seen better days. Its smooth-faced owner had pulled over to the gas-station parking lot, as expected, and the young Rickon Stark had jumped out of the car, soon followed by his friend. The two boys opened the trunk, retrieved a duffel bag from it and parted after a shoulder clasp.

Staying in the background, Sandor observed them, gave a perfunctory wave at the unknown boy who walked back to his car and left after a last gesture to Rickon. Sansa’s little brother was still standing by his duffel bag, staring back at Sandor, an unreadable expression on his face. _So what now?_

Rickon Stark smirked at him and shouldered his bag before crossing the space between them. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

“You had a nice trip?” was the best Sandor came up with. There was a silence and he couldn’t help thinking the brat found him the worst conversationalist ever.

Rickon nodded and asked if they were going to Sansa’s place.

“Nope. We’ll go to the gym first.” He gestured at the truck and they both got in. “On Fridays, it closes at 9 PM but I asked someone to take care of it. I’ll make sure everything is OK at the gym, I’ll show you around and we’ll go to my place. Sansa will join us for dinner after her shift.”

Since they got inside Sandor’s truck, Rickon kept looking at him, making him uncomfortable. Suddenly he realized Sansa was probably not the only one to feel strange about the situation. Meeting a member of her family who knew they were dating was unfamiliar to say the least; it made him feel awkward. His back was stiff, his gestures clumsy. Trying to behave as if nothing important was going on was a fucking tall order, making conversation was worse: he turned on the radio instead and an old rendition of _I Walk the Line_ filled the car.

“So… It’s a boxing gym you’re running,” Rickon said. By rekindling the conversation, the boy suggested to turn off the radio and to silence Johnny Cash. In any case, that was how Sandor read it; after the radio went silent, he answered that yes, he ran a boxing gym. For some reason, he felt the urge to give him details about the treadmills and the exercise benches and he soon found himself chirping like the little bird when she got nervous. _Pathetic._

Lucky for him, the gas station was not far from the gym. Rickon and him looked around the property, and the boy expressed more enthusiasm for the gym than he expected, going so far as to ask if he could come there the next day and train with the other customers. Sandor mumbled he would be pleased to have him there, he gave his instructions to Lem and they left.

As Rickon remained silent on their drive to Sandor’s house, he began to wonder what the boy would think about his place and when he would start making fun of him. _Because he will. There’s no reason why he would spare me today. I’m sure he’s biding his time._ They started glancing at each other in the truck, then as they walked to the front door. Again, Sandor showed the boy around before telling him he would start making dinner. He thought he would watch some crappy show on TV like the kids of his age, but no sound came from his living room, except that of Rickon’s feet dragging on the floor. _What the hell is he doing?_ As far as he could tell from the kitchen where he stood, Sansa’s little brother was wandering between the French window and the shelf containing a few books and lots of CDs.

Finally, after Sandor had put in the oven the prime rib roast, Rickon’s auburn mop appeared in the doorway.

“Need some help?” the kid asked without ever losing his smirk. He took in the disorder on the kitchen table and the beads of sweat on Sandor’s forehead.  

Sandor declined politely. Cooking was hard enough; giving Rickon instructions while he tried to prepare decent potatoes was beyond him. Undeterred, Rickon stepped in and looked around, hands shoved in his pockets. It lasted for a minute or two before he commented, disbelief lacing each syllable: “So there’s only two things on your fridge… One is the number of… ‘Portofino’s Pizzas’ and the other one is Sansa’s schedule at the hospital.”

“So?” he replied, probably too quickly and too curtly not to sound nervous. Disguising his anger behind his unwavering interest for the wholegrain mustard dressing he prepared, Sandor ignored his young guest.

“So this is serious business between you two.”

He was certain by now, that Rickon knew he was avoiding his gaze on purpose and he probably found it ridiculous; Sandor made an effort and locked eyes with him. “I wouldn’t have come to pick you up and you wouldn’t be in my kitchen otherwise.”

“Hmm. That’s a subtle way to tell me I’m a pain in the ass and you only tolerate me because you fuck my sister.”

Sandor’s eyes narrowed instantly. “You’d better watch your tongue when you talk about your sister in my presence.”

Rickon looked amused. “So you’re going to tell me you don’t bang Sansa because you have too much respect for her?”

_Little prick._ He cursed under his breath; his instinct told him Rickon only did it out of provocation and tried - successfully - to make him fly off the handle. Now he just wanted Sansa to come back from the hospital, hoping the brat would behave once his sister would be here: nothing was less certain though.

“Talk about things you do know,” Sandor snapped. “Video games and such… You know nothing about women and sex.”

“Touché.” Rickon mimicked someone who had received a punch in the stomach and made as if to fall. “I- I have some questions though and given that you know so much more than I do, you’re going to answer me.”

His ironic tone gave Sandor murderous thoughts: he had always thought Arya was, amongst her siblings, the only nuisance and that the rest of the Stark children were good kids - although a tad boring. He found in Rickon, his sister’s acerbic tone, her gall: in Arya’s case, it had been a way to defend herself at a time when they were more or less on the lam, forced to share the same shelter - whenever they found one - or the same car. There was no need for Rickon to defend himself; or had the years spent abroad with this Osha - a woman whose criminal record was as long as a month of Sundays - changed him irreversibly?

“So…” Rickon came closer; even if Sandor busied himself with the dishes in the sink, Rickon’s lanky frame was in the periphery of his vision. “Is she more into Asian or Italian food? I have a part-time job now, so I’m supposed to invite Sansa to a restaurant at least once during my stay here to thank her… Does she take some sugar or cream in her tea for breakfast? And… on which side of the bed do you sleep?”

Sandor slowly swiveled his head and looked daggers at him: “You’ve got a nerve! Fuck…” The plate he was washing slipped through his fingers, sank in the water and splashed.

Next to him, Rickon smiled smugly. “Mental note: my questions embarrass you.”

“They don’t.”

“Then answer them!”

Sandor took a sharp intake of breath. “Try Korean food. No cream, no sugar in her tea. And… for your last question, the answer is on top.”

Hands shoved in his pockets, the brat chuckled, his head pulling in to his shoulders rhythmically. _At least, I make him laugh._

* * *

The lingering tension hardly decreased when Sansa’s car arrived in the driveway. Assuming the siblings wanted to be alone for a moment after not seeing each other since Sansa had moved in Quiet Isle, Sandor stayed in the kitchen to clean the mess he had made while cooking but he only heard them laughing and chatting in the living room.

Sansa was radiant during dinner: never had he realized before what it meant for her to have found one of her brothers again. At some point, watching her joking with Rickon made him ill-at-ease because he had never experienced the same with Gregor. As for his sister, the memories were old, very old, but they hurt all the same when he remembered their fits of laughter and the way they squabbled sometimes; at some point of the dinner, he might have felt a lump in his throat.

He was roused from his thoughts by Sansa who apparently couldn’t finish her meat and daintily placed what remained of her portion on Sandor’s plate. He gave her an inquiring look before grabbing his fork; he would have eaten the savory meat in no time if Rickon had not stopped him.

“Interesting. Do you know she did this when we were kids, Sandor? She would give Dad whatever she was not able to eat. Especially the fatty part of meat.”

“Rickon, you’re trying to embarrass me,” his sister protested. Rolling her eyes, she stood up and informed them she was going to refill the water jug.

After she disappeared in the kitchen, Rickon leaned over the table and whispered to his host: “Does she call you Daddy when you’re in bed?”

Sandor snorted. “What is this? A sort of test? You’re trying to find out if I’m going to lose it and crush your head against the table? Nice try.”

They must have looked funny for Sansa arched her eyebrows when she came back from the kitchen. She nevertheless rekindled the conversation and they made small talk for a while before Rickon addressed his sister: “You know Sandor has an awesome collection of CDs and even vinyl records? I saw this and told myself your boyfriend was not a complete hasbeen.”

“Rickon!” Sansa sounded both scandalized and embarrassed.

Sandor chuckled.

“Seriously, I don’t understand why you keep your old CDs, but man, you’ve got good taste. From Johnny Cash to Nirvana, including The Ramones, you know the classics.”

Without a word, Sandor tilted his head by way of thanks and raised his glass.

“Of course, he’s got good taste,” Sansa cooed, taking his hand and squeezing it.

“There were good bands when you were a teenager. Back then…”

“Back then?” Sandor repeated, an incredulous look on his face. “I guess that’s your way to tell me how old I look.” A smile pulled up the corners of his burnt mouth, but his eyes narrowed at the kid. Again, Sansa protested. But it’s between him and me. A sort of childish urge to have the last word, to shut the other’s trap had slowly crept in since the moment they had been alone in the kitchen. “The thing is, when I grew up, Nirvana and Rage Against the Machine were on the radio. What kind of rock band is on the radio now?... Coldplay?” His tone was dismissive enough to silence Rickon for long, blissful seconds.

The kid’s mouth dangled open then he snapped his jaw shut. “I- I was a big fan of this band, you know, Cold War Kids, before they sold their soul to the devil, AKA pop music.”

“You summed up the last ten years of rock music,” Sandor approved.

“Their third album broke my heart,” Rickon confessed, half-serious, half-joking. That was how he saw the boy since the day they had met: torn between the urge to make fun of everything - including himself - and the utmost seriousness. _I guess that’s what happens sometimes when you grow up too quickly._

“Sorry, kid.” And somehow, as he uttered these words, Sandor knew he meant them, that he was truly sorry for Rickon if things weren’t like they were supposed to be, if rock bands abandoned their convictions and if serious shit happened.

“You guys had great rock bands, back then.” Rickon’s tone was laced with a mix of resignation and envy. Afterward the kid distractedly started playing with the cork of the wine bottle Sandor had opened for him and Sansa; staring into space, Rickon seemed to forget how he had taken a perverse pleasure in teasing him earlier. Sandor had the fleeting impression he had passed the test, that for some reason Rickon would leave him be because the kid now knew what kind of person he was.

The rest of the night was spent listening to rock bands who had split or whose leaders had died way before Rickon was born, before Sansa decided it was time to leave.

Rickon had already walked outside and stopped by Sansa’s car with his duffel bag; he listened to the cicadas. Sandor stood on the threshold, his little bird in his arms.

“Rickon can be a little prick sometimes,” she whispered apologetically. “He’s a good kid though and as strange as it seems, I think he really likes you.”

Sandor didn’t find anything relevant to say and nodded. “You smell good,” he rasped to break the silence.

“I know you. You’re trying to sway me into changing my mind and staying here.” Sansa smiled. With her arms wrapped around Sandor’s neck and the way she arched her back under his touch, she acted like she wanted to stay more than she’d ever voice it aloud.

“You can’t stop a man from dreaming.... This- This is going to be a very long week.”

“Tell yourself it’s like waiting for Christmas morning.”

“You being the long-awaited gift,” he said. “Did I tell you I always tore my gifts open when I was a kid?”

Sansa bursted out laughing and after a last kiss, she wiggled away from his arms. “I’ll make sure to pick clothes I don’t really care about the day my brother leaves, then.” Smiling mischievously and never breaking eye contact, she walked backwards to her car, then she blew a kiss.

* * *

As Rickon had told him, he showed up at the gym the day after and spent his day training and talking with the customers while Sandor attended his business and filled in paperwork for the new fitness centre that was supposed to open soon.

At lunch, he took Rickon to the food truck where he used to buy sandwiches and they walked back to the boxing gym with two paper bags smelling of chicken and warm bread. They sat on the bench outside of the gym to enjoy the sun. Feeling ravenous, Sandor stuffed his food down without paying much attention to his young companion, until he realized Rickon’s silence was unusual.

Reluctantly putting aside his toasted chicken and mushroom sandwich, he asked the boy: “What’s wrong? I thought you were hungry…”

Rickon cocked his head to the side and gave him a long look. There was something almost intimidating being under the boy’s scrutiny. Rickon’s eyes were as blue as Sansa’s and even more piercing, it seemed.

The boy shrugged as if to minimize the impact of what he was about to say and he asked Sandor: “So… what’s your next move? Are you going to propose or something?”

_Propose?_ The next seconds stretched while Sandor racked his brains for the right answer.  _Propose? To Sansa?_ The question struck him like a blow on the head.


	11. Episode 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the moment Rickon had asked if he planned to propose, Sandor had turned paranoid, wondering if Rickon had broached the subject with his sister, what had been her reaction if he had… He had even thought Sansa might be behind this, that perhaps she had let her brother into the secret and asked him to make this suggestion, just to see what would be Sandor’s answer. A sort of trial balloon. If so, she must have been disappointed because he behaved as if nothing had happened. He shook his head: there was no way Sansa manipulated her brother like a puppet, because she wasn’t that kind of girl and above all, because Rickon would never let anyone use him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter: thank you so much, dear.
> 
> Your comments/kudos/bookmarks mean a lot to me: thank you!

When the light turned green, the fancy SUV Sandor followed on his way home took its time to start and he ran his hand over his face with impatience, repressing a curse. As Rickon was on the passenger seat, he didn’t want to look like the irresponsible grown up who glared at the boy when he swore like a sailor but did just the same. _Fuck fuck fuck._ Cursing inwardly and dwelling on the things that drove him mad were his only options since Sansa’s brother had showed up.

Stuck behind the SUV’s owner who drove far below the speed limit, Sandor exhaled deeply and restrained himself from honking. Gritting his teeth, he squinted at the headlights of a truck after they moved past the strip mall. If he was being honest, the sluggish pace of the SUV was not what infuriated him - nor was the fucking habit of some truck drivers; to blind everyone and their dog with headlights. His frustration came from something else. He had turned on the radio, hoping Rickon would just spend the short drive to his house texting back and forth instead of trying to make conversation: his head hanging over the screen of his phone, the youngest Stark boy looked busy sending texts to his friends who had stayed in the North.

Sandor sighed again. The rhythm of the song on the radio was familiar, something repetitive and haunting, something he associated with apprehension and smoking cigarettes. _Fuck, what’s this song?_ And suddenly, the male singer started singing:

_“From the bottom of your heart_

_The relegation zone_

_I saw this coming from the start_

_The shake, rattle and roll”_

_Fucking Arctic Monkeys._ He had seen this coming from the start; he knew that, someday his inability to commit himself and to make plans about the future would be a problem; he didn’t think the question would come up so soon though. He didn’t know someone would ask him how he saw his future with Sansa.

He turned off the radio.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Rickon protested.

“You like these guys? Fucking Brits…”

“Sansa loves this song.”

Sandor snickered. “She loves it so I’m supposed to love it too, hmm?”

A snort coming from the passenger seat informed him how ridiculous he sounded. “What’s wrong with you? Your day’s over, Sansa said she’d bring back some take-out food so that you don’t have to cook… why the long face?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened but he remained silent, staring at the road.

“If it wasn’t for that gravelly voice or the hair on your chest, I’d say you’re PMSing.”

Sandor swiveled his head and narrowed his eyes. “Lucky for you, you didn’t mention another part of my anatomy. But... don’t do _that_ , boy.”

Rickon shrugged innocently. _Don’t do that either. Don’t pretend you didn’t say anything because you just fucking did_. Protesting or arguing with Rickon was a waste of time: he thus kept his mouth shut, knowing he couldn’t have the last word with a smart kid who was better at shutting someone else’s trap than at boxing. _But he’s a quick learner. He’d make strides if he trained daily._

“Seriously, man, what’s the matter?” Rickon’s voice was almost tinged with concern. _Almost._

Sandor considered answering for a split second but they had already left the outskirts of Quiet Isle and they would arrive soon. _Poor timing._ With his big mouth, Rickon was not the confidant he needed anyway. As he made a turn to the right and moved into his driveway, Sandor tried to recall when he had started feeling so nervous. _Easy: lunchtime with Rickon, the day after he arrived. He asked me-_ The engine roared as he seemed unable to use the shift properly. _He asked me if I was going to propose._

Since that moment, he had turned paranoid, asking himself if Rickon had broached the subject with his sister, what had been her reaction if he had… He had even thought Sansa might be behind this, that perhaps she had let her brother into the secret and asked him to make this suggestion, just to see what would be Sandor’s answer. _A sort of trial balloon._ If so, she must have been disappointed because he behaved as if nothing had happened. He shook his head: there was no way Sansa manipulated her brother like a puppet, because she wasn’t that kind of girl and above all, because Rickon would never let anyone use him.

_So… why ask?_ He woke up at sunrise, drifted off at night with that bloody question. He had constructed various scenarios: Rickon rubbing his hands and laughing cruelly before asking, Rickon frightened that his sister could get entangled in a third marriage, Rickon thinking a wedding was what Sansa wanted. Maybe she had alluded to married life and the boy thought it was what she dreamed of. Maybe Rickon thought Sandor should have asked already and he didn’t understand why they were not engaged yet.

_But we’ve been together for what? Two months? What kind of people get engaged after only two months? Is it even what she wants?_

What Sansa had in mind was a mystery, not only because he didn’t spend his nights with her, but also by spending less time with her, he felt part of the connection they had had disappeared, that he wasn’t able to read her expressions as he did before. She had always kept a part of herself hidden away. _Since day one. That’s why I noticed her years ago, why I relapsed so easily the day we got stuck in the elevator. What the fuck does she want?_

Not knowing drove him mad and he got angry easier since Rickon had asked him what would be his _‘next move’. Shit. He said ‘next move’ as if this was a game of chess or something._

“Did you two fight?” Rickon inquired when the engine stopped. Sandor had parked his car next to Sansa’s; she was waiting for them on the deck, judging by the lights outside.

He scoffed. “We barely see each other these days, how could we fight?”

“Got it: you think you don’t spend enough time with her and you blame it on me.”

“I don’t blame you. You’re here and it’s fine. It’s important for her.”

“So what’s the matter?” Rickon asked as they got out of the car.

Sandor heaved a sigh and looked at the boy with what he thought was a solemn expression.

“Oh no,” Rickon whined. “You have that face - again! You know, the face that says _‘I’m a grown man, I speak in a deep voice because I used to be a heavy smoker, I’ve seen it all, you can’t understand kiddo.’_ Please don’t make that face again, Sandor.” Theatrical as ever, he clasped his hands and stepped closer. “You’d do me a great favor. You’d do us both a huge favour.”

Sandor thus bit the bullet and followed the boy inside.

Fixing his gaze upon Sansa had been a lot more difficult - the word that came to his mind was ‘painful’ - since Rickon had asked him about the proposal. Sometimes, he told himself he couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore. _I’m a coward. Maybe that’s what Rickon thinks and he doesn’t tell me. He knows I didn’t propose. Worse still, he fucking saw my reaction and he’s figured out by now I don’t intend to. How could I? I’m not even able to tell Sansa I love her._

The same thoughts assailed Sandor, night after night, and holding Sansa’s gaze while he inwardly cursed his doubts was a torture.

“Did you call the Elder Brother?” Sansa asked him all of a sudden. He answered her he had not checked his phone. Add another line on the long list of the things I messed up. Sansa went on: “Well you should. He won’t say anything but I know he’s a bit sad. Promise me you will call him?”

He promised, but deep down he doubted he would be able to comfort his friend or to make that call in the first place. _Too much on my mind… How can I be of some help? Whatever it is, the Elder Brother will have to sort this out by himself._

* * *

Harrenhal’s boxing arena was buzzing long before Brienne’s time to climb on the boxing ring came. From the dressing room where they waited, Sandor heard the crowd gathered around the boxing ring, whistling and shouting at the competitors who fought before the tall, robust blonde.

Sitting on the bench opposite him, Brienne was leaning forward, her elbows digging in her thighs, staring into space. From time to time, she winced and frowned at things only she could see. Earlier, after she had put on her boxing gear - sapphire blue boxing shorts and a matching tank top - Sandor had wrapped up her hands like Barristan Selmy had taught him too, then he had put some vaseline on her forehead, eyebrows, cheekbones and chin. He had done the same on her shoulders and down her arms. Now he remembered how surprised he had been when Barristan had _‘greased him up’_ before his first fight, explaining his opponent’s punches would slip off him, thanks to the lubricant.

Her headgear rested on the bench next to her, she had put on her boxing robe and her gloves: now they avoided talking. Sandor knew she had chosen him rather than anyone else because he would not talk strategy nor make small talk to release tension before the match; she wanted a quiet, stone-faced coach, someone who would keep his cool no matter what. Barristan would do great between two rounds when she’d sport a black eye and need encouragement; drinking a beer with Podrick afterward and talking about the match over and over again would be the best way to chill out, but for now it was Sandor she needed and he knew it.

Brienne’s fight was the last one before the intermission; he saw the nervous movements of her feet when the distant clapping and cheering of the crowd informed them the match had ended and Brienne’s time to climb on the ring had come.

“Time to go,” she muttered, without ever looking at him.

As they both stood up, the door flew open and one of the morons who organized the event shouted at them it was time to go.

“We already know,” Sandor replied coldly. He looked hard at the man, a short, bald guy who always looked very busy doing nothing

They strode through the hallways, while music and clapping filled the air. The moment they entered the arena, all the spotlights turned to Brienne; although the bright light blinded him, he briefly saw Brienne raising her arms to greet the audience who cheered loudly in return. The speakers spewed out some cheap alternative rock as they headed to the boxing ring, Brienne climbing up while he stayed on the floor level. His protegee jutted out her chin, then insolently took off her robe. The man who organized the event, an unsavory character named Vargo Hoat, hollered her name over the mic, his gaunt face suddenly lit with excitement. Sandor didn’t like the way he considered the competitors and he found him contemptuous when it came to women's boxing. It was clear that the man only organized this to make money; love of boxing had nothing to do with it.

Brienne paced a bit more in the boxing ring, giving the audience the impression she knew what she was doing, even if it was her first match. The stakes were high for the young woman, although she would never admit it: if she succeeded, she’d finally be able to prove herself she was talented. He saw her releasing a deep breath when Vargo Hoat started gesturing to announce who would face her. _Hey, you can do it._

“... and now, please welcome the fearthome Chella!” Vargo Hoat roared. _His fucking lisp makes his interventions more colorful, I guess._

The audience shouted and clapped while blaring music filled the arena. Sandor didn’t know anything about Chella, but when he saw her coming from the dressing rooms, her coach in tow, he couldn’t help cursing. _Fuck, what does it mean?_ Striding to the center of the arena, Chella shot a look of daggers at Brienne as soon as she spotted her, but apart from her glare, Chella had nothing to inspire fear. Dark-haired and as flat as a boy, she was swimming in a much too large black robe. _She’s a half-pint,_ Sandor mused. _Brienne will make short work of her._ He couldn’t believe Vargo Hoat and whoever worked with him had chosen this woman to fight Brienne. _It just proves what kind of amateurs they are._

If her dangling jaw was any indication, Brienne was just as surprised as Sandor. She turned to him and leaned over the rope. “She’s small!” she whispered to him, her blue eyes widening in shock. “I can’t…”

_Here we go…_ Brienne didn’t need to confess about her childhood to let him imagine what she had been taught. _‘You’re too tall for a girl’, ‘you’re too strong and you’ll hurt the other ones if you keep fooling around like this’_ : those were the phrases she must have heard over and over as a kid, leading her to believe she might be the one who'd hurt others and she’d better be careful. That certainty was dangerous. Sandor thought it might have been less complicated for her to fight a woman of the same height and build.

“She might be tougher than we imagine,” he replied. “Stay focused, Brienne. Put your mouthguard in.”

Chella greeted the crowd, unabashed. If Brienne’s tall frame and muscles impressed her, she didn’t show it. _Does it mean this girl has more experience?_ He had never heard of her and he now rued his habit to stay away from the other coaches and from the gossips. Swallowing hard, Sandor turned his gaze to the seats behind him: sitting on the first row, the Elder Brother observed the boxing ring with perplexity. Further behind, Sandor spotted Sansa and Rickon. She waved timidly at him while her brother shrugged theatrically to express his amazement. _If it doesn’t make sense for Rickon either…_

The match began and suddenly his eyes followed Brienne who stepped forward. Her shoulders were tense, revealing her discomfort. If a taller opponent was to fear for obvious reasons, a smaller one could easily be disconcerting and lead a boxer to hold their hands close to their upper body, not high enough to protect their face. _For fuck’s sake, don’t panic, Brienne._ If this Chella was the aggressive type of boxer, as her pacing around the ring suggested, she had the means to unsettle Brienne.

Chella tried a jab at the head, Brienne barely avoided and she went on with two body punches. From his spot, Sandor saw the smug face of Chella’s coach: the bastard lapped it up. Short and sturdy, with short arms he kept folded about his chest, he might have been a swarmer once and Sandor bet it was this technique he had taught Chella.

At the end of the first round, Brienne had blocked countless punches but had hardly hit her opponent.

“She’s tiring herself,” Brienne slurred after he helped her remove her mouthguard.

He gave her some water and shook his head. “I tell you what’s going on, Brienne. I don’t know if she’s tiring herself but you’re losing your self-assurance. You should counter and throw three punch combos like you do in the gym instead of blocking. You have what it takes to win this match, but you’re behaving like a fucking amateur. You’re _scared_ and she sees it.”

With an impatient gesture, the referee motioned the two women to the center of the boxing ring and they resumed fighting.

At the end of the fourth round, the crowd shouted for Chella who clearly prevailed over Brienne. Panting in the corner of the ring she’d been assigned, Brienne already looked defeated and her split lip only made it worse. While Barristan diligently dabbed at her lip and whispered soothing words at her, Sandor spat: “I don’t want to remember this night as the night I wasted my time and energy, so you’re going to go back to the center of the ring and you’re going to fight. She’s a fucking half pint! You should have settled this matter already!”

He saw Brienne blinking back tears, then nodding, and he mentally crossed his fingers. A quick glance at Sansa behind him confirmed she shared his apprehension: she had scooted to the edge of her seat and bit her lower lip. The fifth round was indecisive, yet Brienne fought back and her opponent lost part of her glory. The smug smile on Chella’s coach vanished during round six but it took two more rounds and all of Brienne’s pugnacity to punch out the short woman.

In the end, when the referee lifted Brienne’s fist high in the air, she looked dazed. The audience applauded and some people even acclaimed her, without noticing she was hardly able to stand; when coming out of the ring, she almost fell in Barristan and Sandor’s arms and they had to help her go back to the dressing rooms.

The feeling of having done what was expected from him was pleasant: Brienne thanked him profusely once in the dressing rooms and insisted on the fact she couldn’t have won without his help and his way of giving her a kick up the backside. Then both men left Brienne alone.

While an exhausted and thirsty Barristan headed to the bar, Sandor went to observe the rows of seats, looking for Sansa. The surroundings of the boxing ring were more or less deserted at this moment and as she was nowhere to be seen, he limped along to the bar, telling himself she might have wanted to find something to drink; she was supposed to drive to Harrenhal after the end of her shift. He wasn’t even sure she had had time to go back home and eat something.

Harrenhal’s boxing arena wasn’t a big one, so the bar was located in the large entrance hall; most of the spectators were gathered there, some going outside to have a smoke, others coming back inside, their lungs full of nicotine. His hand automatically went to his back pocket where his packet of cigarettes was, then he changed his mind. _Sansa. Where are you?_ Several men he didn’t know congratulated him for being Brienne’s coach; he replied politely but never even tried to rekindle the conversation.

There were families, children and he even spotted a bunch of grown women dressed and made up like teenage girls, but most of the spectators were men. He was scanning the crowd when the Elder Brother planted himself in front of him.

“Congratulations, Sandor! I wish all the matches were as suspenseful as the one your protegee won. This Brienne is impressive.”

Still looking for Sansa, he mumbled his thanks before locking eyes with the Elder Brother. His bald friend took a sip from a bottle of beer.

“You want a beer?” the Elder Brother asked.

“No. Thanks.” _Say something. Stop behaving like a grumpy old thing._ “So… how are you?” he asked the surgeon.

“Could be better. I’m thinking about… retirement these days.”

“Oh. Is that so?” Sandor didn’t find anything else to say. _Where’s Sansa?_ “But… Why would you retire?” he went on, trying to focus on the Elder Brother’s confession. “You still have plenty of time…”

His friend smiled sadly and took another sip of beer. “You know, Sandor… It’s something I’ve had on my mind for a while now…” He would have elaborated, had Rickon not arrived like a fury.

“Where have you been? I was looking for you!” The boy barely cast a glance at the Elder Brother.

“I was looking for your sister... What’s going on?”

The Elder Brother took a step back. “Well, you two apparently have better things to do, than listen to my whining, so… we’ll talk later. Sandor, your seat is next to mine in the front row,” he added with a hand gesture, before walking away.

Sandor couldn’t help noticing his resigned look: he wanted to say something, but Rickon tugged at his sleeve. “There’s this guy at the other end of the hall with Sansa… You know the kind that buttonholes a chick and flirts with her…”

This revelation made his blood boil instantly and he grabbed Rickon’s upper arm. “Where?”

Rickon swallowed hard, then guided him between the clusters of spectators who chatted and laughed. “My sister must be the only girl in the country who puts on a dress and pretty shoes to go to a boxing match… Poor San should just tell him to fuck off, but you know her, she’s too kind…” Rickon explained.

“Why didn’t you intervene?”

“I told the guy who you were, but he didn’t take me seriously,” Sansa’s brother replied, his voice hitting a high note.

“People would take you seriously if you stopped making fun of everything and everyone.”

And finally, he saw her. Sansa wore one of her favorite black dresses with wedge heel sandals that made her look even taller. Her arms folded about her chest and keeping her distance with the man who sweet-talked her, she politely listened to him. When she spotted Sandor, a smile briefly graced her lips and as he came closer, Sandor heard her say: “... you know, the man I told you I was waiting for… He’s here.” With a flourish, she showed Sandor.

The douchebag who tried to flirt with his girlfriend followed her gesture with his eyes, saw Sandor’s massive frame and gawked.

“Case, meet Sandor. Sandor, meet Case,” Sansa said.

A hush fell on the corner where they stood: Sandor realized it when, a few seconds later, a woman who was sitting near Sansa and who apparently took a perverse pleasure in Case’s discomfited look giggled. Slightly younger than Sandor, he looked like the kind of man who didn’t take no for an answer.

“You have a death wish or something, man?” Rickon asked the moron. The boy sounded so revanchist Sandor silenced him with a glare, then he turned to the man again and looked hard at him. His fingers curled into balled fists and that was enough to scare him away.

“I- uh… I need to see someone,” the man said, pathetic.

“Good idea,” Sandor commented as he moved past him. “Stay away from my girl,” he growled. Sandor’s eyes followed him as he slalomed between the groups of spectators; he only noticed Rickon and Sansa had been staring at him for a while when he glanced back at them.

“Man… that was awesome,” Rickon said. “I wish I could do the same.”

“Well, you can’t,” he retorted coldly. “Training a bit might help, though.”

Sansa chuckled at that and took a step forward. “My savior. Always on time.” Her caressing tone sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine. _I missed you._

As if she could read his mind, Sansa crossed the remaining distance between them, cupped his face and kissed him lightly. “This one is to say hello.” She gave him another peck. “This one is for getting rid of the leech.” He wrapped his arms around her as her lips brushed his again. “This one is for being a great coach and making me so proud of you.”

If the place wasn’t crowded he would have pinned her against a wall. Not having her in his bed since Rickon had showed up had made him realize how much he wanted her.

“Hey! Earth to Sansa… People are moving back to their seats and so should we,” Rickon interrupted them.

They broke their embrace with a sigh. He kept her hand in his all the way to the row where Sansa and Rickon had been sitting. “Let’s do something,” he suggested to Rickon. “You take my seat in the front row, next to the Elder Brother and I’ll take yours.”

Rickon made a face and pursed his lips as if he smelled trouble, then he shrugged. “If you want…”

As the boy hurtled down the stairs, Sandor and Sansa found their way to their seats. He couldn’t help staring hungrily at her and it made her alternatively laugh and blush. When most of the lights went off and the spotlights flooded the boxing ring, he placed his hand on her thigh.

“Keep your paws off,” she murmured, suppressing a giggle.

For the rest of the night, he held her hand. Sometimes, when she turned to him to ask a question about the referee’s decisions, her knee brushed his leg and it was like a one-way ticket to the first days of their relationship, after he had found her in the elevator, when they were not together yet but every touch felt like a promise.

“I’ll have to go back to the boxing ring afterward,” he told her at the end of the last match. “The local newspapers are here and I’m expected to get my picture taken or something.”

“You’re going to be _famous_ ,” she whispered, teasing him. “I’ll stay and watch during your photo call. I want to see what you look like when you say _‘cheese’_. Besides I don’t want you to flirt with one of these girls.”

“Oh, do you?”

Disguising her smile with a sulky face, she nodded. On the ring, Vargo Hoat bellowed in the mic all the contestants and their coaches had to join him. “When duty calls…” Sansa trailed off. He got on his feet reluctantly and she followed suit; going back to the boxing ring at this moment was difficult because the aisle was crowded with spectators who wanted to leave now the show was over. Sansa’s hand pleasantly squeezed his while he made his way through the crowd.

Around the boxing ring, they found the Elder Brother who smiled although he looked awful and Rickon who yawned shamelessly. All the young women who had fought that night were there too, with their coaches; he spotted three local journalists he had seen before, two men and a woman. Once more Vargo Hoat called the shots, telling the photographer what he should do and how. Brienne rolled her eyes and so did half the contestants.

After a picture of the contestants surrounding Vargo Hoat like a modern, badass version of a harem, the compliant photographer took one of the contestants with their coaches, then another one of the six girls who had won that night.

“And now, the winnerth and their coacheth!” Vargo Hoat shouted. Too much beer had made him forget his lisp, assuming he cared about it.

The girls who had won their matches and their coaches gathered in front of the boxing ring, so that the photographer could immortalize the moment.

“Are you going to introduce me to your girlfriend?” Brienne asked Sandor.

“Maybe-”

“Everyone, ftay focuthed!” Vargo Hoat ordered, yelling and spluttering in one of the girls’ bruised face.

The ‘photo call’, as Sansa called it went on for a minute or two; Sandor noticed Sansa was talking with one of the journalists working for the local newspaper. The guy nodded every now and then and visibly took notes.

“Hope it’s not her number he’s writing down...” Brienne teased him. “Of course not, you numbskull! Unless she has a very long phone number...”

“Shouldn't you stay quiet, with that split lip of yours?” he retorted. Brienne smirked, making her swollen lip look even more awful.

The young women and their coaches scattered as the annoying Vargo Hoat put on quite a show for the journalists. Brienne jumped at the chance to greet Sansa; without even waiting for Sandor, she walked towards his girlfriend and introduced herself: “You must be Sansa Stark, right? I'm Brienne Tarth. Sandor is my coach.”

“Nice to meet you, Brienne. And... congratulations. It was a great match.”

Hands in his pockets, Sandor stopped next to them. “You didn't really need me to introduce yourself,” he commented, addressing Brienne.

The blonde shrugged and turned again to Sansa. “I once worked for your mother,” she went on. “It was a long time ago. A true lady, Catelyn Stark.”

Sansa nodded with a painful look and gazed momentarily at the far end of the boxing arena; Brienne's hand patted awkwardly her shoulder. When Sansa looked up at her again, a smile graced her lips. “It speaks very highly of you, Brienne.”

“What?”

“The fact my mother chose you rather than anyone else.”

“Oh, please! You're going to make me blush.”

The two girls stayed there for a while, looking at each other, not saying much, but smiling as if they were glad to share this moment. Shoulders hunched and hands shoved in her pockets, Brienne towered over Sansa who complimented her on her performance. Somewhere behind, Sandor heard the Elder Brother talk with Rickon who didn't joke around for a change. In the end, Brienne seemed to realize Sandor was there and she took her leave.

“What were you talking about with that four-eyed guy?” he asked Sansa, once they were alone. Watching her with the journalist had aroused his curiosity and perhaps, even if there was nothing to brag about, a feeling of possessiveness.

“Are you jealous?” A mocking smile playing about her lips, she tilted her head. “We were talking about you. He asked me what I was doing here because I ‘didn't look the part’,” she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “I told him I came to support my boyfriend who coaches one of the girls and I insisted on your skills. I said you run a boxing gym in Quiet Isle and you're about to open a fitness center. I asked him kindly if he could keep this part in his article and he said yes so I wouldn't be surprised if you had new customers once the article is published.” She looked very happy with herself and she pinched his cheek affectionately.

_I can't believe she did this._ Speechless, he stared at his girlfriend for long seconds. Sansa arched her eyebrows at his apparent lack of reaction: “Won't you say something?”

“How come a guy like me ends up with a beautiful woman who sings my praises? You're my hero.” He wrapped his arm around her and drew her close.

“'Guardian angel' suits me best,” she said, before puckering up. He kissed her eagerly, making her arch her back and slightly throwing her off balance in the process.

_Five days,_ he thought. _It's been five days since Rickon arrived and since I last spent the night with her._ His right hand brushed the underside of her breast, eliciting a tiny gasp his lips smothered. When he let go of her, his eyes were heavy on her cleavage.

“Is there any chance you’ll come to my place tonight?” he rasped. _I sound desperate. Desperate and horny._

She wagged her finger. “I'm afraid I can't. I might be your guardian angel but I'm also Rickon's role model.”

“And role models don't fuck. I got it. Nor do they eat, drink or shit.”

Sansa snorted, then jabbed a finger at his chest. “Two more days and he'll be gone.”

“Sounds like a promise.”

“Sort of.” She laughed at that and walked towards the Elder Brother.

Sandor took the opportunity to collapse next to Rickon who was sitting cross-legged on the first row, distractedly watching the journalists as they interviewed the boxers. “So... what did you think about all this?” he asked the boy.

“It was interesting. Female mud wrestling is more fun, though.”

Rickon’s laughing eyes met his. They both chuckled and an exhausted hush fell over them. After a while, Sandor rasped: “I've been told some of the kids who come daily to the gym organized a party tomorrow night. You know them: Travis and Josh… Would you... like to go?” With his arm resting on the back of the seats, he feigned nonchalance but deep down he hoped Rickon wouldn't say no.

Rickon swiveled his head and shot him a wary gaze. “Nice attempt to get rid of me, Sandor. Come on! Admit it.”

Sandor shrugged innocently. “Just concerned about your social life.” One by one, the spotlights above them began to go off. “I guess it's a no.”

“I didn't say no!” Rickon protested. “I just want us to be on the same wave-length: if you admit you’re trying to get rid of me so that Sansa spends the night with you, I'll... think about it.”

Sandor pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Alright, I don't want you under my feet,” Sandor said. “For just one night.”

“See? It seems we can get along. Where is this party?”

“Dunno. Ask the kids.”

“It doesn't matter, as long as I can escape Sansa's apartment. I swear I'm going to blow a fuse if she makes me watch another comedy or even worse, a hundredth documentary about World War II 'because it's important I improve my average in History'. Seriously, how do you not argue with her about TV programs?”

“Easy. She knows I never finished high school and... we have better things to do than watch TV.”

Rickon gave him a knowing look. “I understand, man. Life’s a bitch. Lucky for you your girlfriend’s brother is so understanding.”

“What are you two scheming?” Sansa planted herself in front of them, playing with the shoulder strap of her purse. She looked ready to go.

“We were talking about the TV programs you watch with Sandor at night,” Rickon said, tongue in cheek. Jumping on his feet, he shot a bright smile at his sister.

The three of them started walking to the exit door. “But... We don't watch TV,” Sansa replied, brow furrowed. Under the neons, her cheeks reddened as she seemingly began to realize her brother was pulling her leg. _She's fucking adorable._ Sandor took her hand in his and squeezed it.

“Exactly!” Rickon exclaimed. He seemed to take a intense pleasure in making her blush. “You and Sandor have better things to do at night that watch TV, like…” She shot him a glare. “... like playing scrabble.”

* * *

The next day, Sandor was having dinner at Sansa's apartment when the doorbell rang. She headed to the entrance door while Rickon elbowed Sandor. “I gave Travis and Josh her address,” the boy explained. “Hope San is not going to freak out.”

From the living room they could hardly hear what Sansa said to the two boys, but from her high-pitched tone, Sandor could tell she was surprised. Rickon leaped up and ran to the door. Smirking to himself, Sandor stood up with a grunt and followed suit.

“Travis, Josh!” Rickon exclaimed. Although she had seen them at the boxing gym, he introduced his new friends to Sansa whose folded arms expressed a mix of concern and uneasiness. “Travis and Josh are taking me to a party,” Rickon said as if it was all settled. For Sansa, though, things were never settled when it came to her little brother.

“Where are you taking him, exactly?” she asked.

“Josh’s stepfather’s house. It’s by the river,” Travis answered.

“We’re responsible people,” Josh added. “There’s plenty of room at my stepfather’s, so when people drink they spend the night out there. You can come tomorrow morning to pick Rickon if you want.” I bet Rickon briefed them on the topic.

“Maybe we should go,” Travis suggested, after giving a glance at his cellphone. “We still have things to do before the others arrive.”

“See?” Rickon’s voice exuded triumph because he knew his sister couldn’t object to letting him go out.

“You didn’t even eat your dessert!” she finally said, making the two other boys cackle. “There’s coconut ice cream. Your favorite.”

Rickon rubbed her shoulder with a goofy smile, then he told her with a straight face: “Maternal instinct… Stop treating me like a kid, sis: I’m not a kid anymore. You know what? Have kids instead. I’m sure Sandor here is willing to help you.”

Speechless, Sansa looked as if she was a diver running out of air; the two boys suppressed a laugh. Rickon patted her sister’s shoulder again, grabbed his things and left. The door slammed behind him and Sandor let out a snort. Sansa had her back to him and from where he was he could see her shoulders sag; she stayed still long enough for him to wonder if he had not made a mistake. The little bird has been clear on spending time with her brother this week, after all…

Then, very slowly, she spun on her heels and faced him. That night, she wore a tank top and one of her numerous skater skirts - a black one with polka dots. She swallowed and asked him: “Do you have anything to do with this?” She pointed at the door.

Sandor lifted his hands in acquiescence. “I plead guilty. I told Rickon the boys organized a party; but your brother is the one who asked them if he could tag along. Are you mad at me?”

She took her time before shaking her head. “Are they responsible boys?” she nonetheless asked, as if she had misgivings about letting Rickon go out.

Her trusting blue eyes locked with his; he closed the distance between them and took her in his arms. “Well, Travis grows some pot in his grandma’s backyard and Josh just got out of jail for murder,” he said with feigned solemnity. He kissed the crown of her head.

She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You sound like Rickon. It’s not funny!”

“They’re responsible kids. I know them, I even have their numbers, just in case. So?”

For a few more seconds, Sansa didn’t move: she didn’t push him away but she didn’t draw him close either. She sighed, looked up at him and finally wrapped her arms around his neck. “So what?”

“We’re alone. Finally. Do you really want a dessert?” _Please say no._

A mischievous smile graced her lips. “Desserts are so overrated.” _Good._ His hand slipped under her skirt, moved up between her thighs. “I want you,” she mouthed, taking his hand and leading him to her bedroom.

Sansa only had her panties on and she was already climbing on the bed when she asked him with a smile: “Did you hear what my brother said about me having kids?”

He wasn’t sure what she expected him to say, so he mumbled: “Yeah. Fucking big mouth.”

Once more, Rickon was the one who put his foot in it, who forced him to reflect on the things he didn’t dare discuss with Sansa. What would he answer if she ever asked him about children? His throat went dry. Sansa pulled him close and unbuttoned his pants, but the feeling remained and he couldn’t help thinking he was a coward, not about the talk about children or engagement. _Fuck. I never even said I love her._ They avoided words of love if he was being honest, like two persons who had seen enough to be afraid of the mere notion of admitting their feelings.

Sansa’s hands on his cock should have made him impatient - it always did and they both knew it - but instead of throwing himself on her he surprised Sansa by stilling her hands and kissing her fervently. Her eyes widened yet she responded with an eagerness matching his.

We have time, he thought as Sansa’s curves crushed against him. _I’m an asshole unable to say ‘I love you’ or buy her a ring but there’s no need to talk about wedding rings and kids now. Right?_

If there was any trace of concern in his eyes, Sansa didn’t seem to notice it as she lay down on the bed, smiling at him. Deep down, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling his inability to commit would blow up in his face, sooner or later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are only two chapters left.


	12. Episode 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after Rickon had asked him if he planned to marry Sansa, nothing really changed. Sandor had many occasions to tell Sansa he loved her, yet he never found the courage to do it. People sometimes asked him about an upcoming wedding, a large grin on their faces, and he didn’t reply. Cheesy advertising posters for wedding rings made him cringe as he drove past them. Days went by, happy and carefree, or so it seemed, and whenever something reminded him that he was unable to commit, he buried the thoughts away. Well, he tried to. If it was difficult to dispose of a corpse - something his violent past had taught him - getting rid of an inconvenient idea and of all the emotions it stirred within him was way more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my beta, Underthenorthernlights.  
> Thank you all for your comments! I’m amazed this story still has your attention. As important as your comments are for me, I didn’t follow your suggestions when I wrote this chapter and I stuck to my guns. This is the story of a man who thinks he’s unable to commit: the plot might seem tenuous but that’s the one I chose since day one. There’s no big revelation in this chapter, no gunfire nor high-speed car chase, just a man facing his weaknesses.  
> Writing this chapter was very difficult for… personal reasons, so this chapter is rather short. I don’t expect this to be everyone’s cup of tea but if you have any criticism to voice out, remember it’s probably the most personal chapter I ever wrote (I feel very exposed right now) and please be kind...

_Six months later - January the 4th_

The shoe organizer had been Sansa’s Christmas present to herself - _her whim,_ he had said to provoke her. That remark had made her nudge him in the ribs; it didn’t stop him from bringing his toolbox to Sansa’s apartment, though.

It was Sunday: they had started putting the piece of furniture together after lunch and now that it was done, the largest part of the wall at the end of Sansa’s bedroom disappeared behind the damn thing. The hammer, the screwdriver and his other tools returned to the toolbox with repeated clangs; he finally stood up with a grunt and caught her expression as she stared at the shoe organizer, biting her lower lip. The childish glee in her eyes amused him. If he was being honest, it even distracted him from the heaviness he had felt since he had woken up. He hated the fourth of January. _It happened twenty-six years ago,_ he tried to convince himself. _It’s all in the fucking past. I should be able to move on._

“Shouldn’t you fill this shoe organizer, instead of looking at it?” he asked her, making an effort to focus on Sansa instead of dwelling on his memories.

“Spoilsport,” she mouthed with a grin, before heading to the entrance hall closet where shoes of all styles and colors piled up.

When she brought back a storage box full of shoes, he suppressed a fit of laughter. “Are you sure they will all fit in?”

“I counted, Mr. Sarcasm. Well, let me think… The high-heeled shoes I don’t wear that much go on the top row and the black ones should be within easy reach-”

“Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’re trying to decide where each pair of shoes goes?”

Sansa turned to him, tilted her head and told him in a most patient tone : “This is called a shoe organizer, Sandor. It means you’re not supposed to put your shoes inside the cubicles haphazardly, you organize them so that you quickly find the exact pair you need. Besides, it’s more pleasant-looking this way.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close. “I always learn new things from you, woman.” Her laughter filled the room before she wriggled away from him. Slightly disappointed, he bent over the storage box containing her shoes and rummaged in it until he found the pair he was looking for. _High-heeled black pumps._ These ones were a nice distraction, even when memories weighed him down. Their nubuck leather was velvety under his fingers; Sansa had worn them for New Year’s Eve. He raised to his full height and brandished them with a grin.

“What?” she said. She must have anticipated one of his jokes for a smile pulled the corners of her lips.

“I want you to wear these shoes next time we fuck.”

Sansa shook her head. “You know I can really hurt you with these if I decide to be a bad girl?”

“I’m not afraid. Do I look afraid?” He took a step forward and pinned her against the shoe organizer. “So, what do you say?”

Biting her lip not to laugh, she held his gaze for long seconds before replying: “Maybe I’ll consider your… suggestion if you help me organize all my shoes…”

“Always ready to take advantage of an old dog.” Sansa rubbed the tip of her nose against his cheek.

He thus stayed to help her tidy up her shoes, hoping he would forget why this time of year was so difficult for him. “How is it possible for a woman to have so many pairs of shoes?” he asked her when the top row was full.

Sansa spun on her heels and heaved a sigh. “You didn’t see all those I left at Harry’s when I ran away. I think my ex-husband could have started his own business with all the clothes and shoes-”

He didn’t listen to the rest. His brain had stopped functioning when he had heard _‘ex-husband’_. If he was being honest, it wasn’t because the mere evocation of Harry Hardyng made his hackles rise; he didn’t give a fuck about Harry. It was because the word _‘husband’_ reminded him Harry had been able to propose when he was unable to do so. His shoulders sagged.

Six months after Rickon had asked him if he planned to marry Sansa, nothing really changed. Sandor had many occasions to tell Sansa he loved her, yet he never found the courage to do it. People sometimes asked him about an upcoming wedding, a large grin on their faces, and he didn’t reply. Cheesy advertising posters for wedding rings made him cringe as he drove past them. Days went by, happy and carefree, or so it seemed, and whenever something reminded him that he was unable to commit, he buried the thoughts away. Well, he tried to. If it was difficult to dispose of a corpse - something his violent past had taught him - getting rid of an inconvenient idea and of all the emotions it stirred within him was way more complicated.

With time, it only became harder, because after eight months together people started to see them as an ‘old couple’ and expected them to marry or to get engaged; in this regard, the festive season had given him a hard time. His friends at the gym had teased him about his plans and Lem had even asked if Sandor thought of replacing his truck with a station wagon. Sansa’s family reacted the same way, although they didn’t voice out their interrogations; Brynden Tully’s gaze had been heavy on their fingers intertwined when Sandor and Sansa had visited him for Christmas. The notion he was a disappointment, to the closest thing Sansa had to a father, for his friends and above all for her, was unbearable. _But that’s exactly what I am._

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sansa’s voice raised him from his thoughts.

Sandor did what he was becoming good at: he gave her his most reassuring smile and said it was nothing.

“You look distracted today,” she observed. “Is it because you’re going to that boxing match with Brienne in King’s Landing?”

After her success in Harrenhal last summer, Brienne had kept fighting amateur boxers; she had defeated her opponents one after the other and won her ticket to King’s Landing for the finale. Sandor was to accompany her, while Barristan would keep an eye on the gym.

“I guess that’s it,” he replied.

“When do you leave?”

“Tuesday morning. All the information is on your fridge.”

He couldn’t shake the feeling he had reached a dead end but making her worry was the last thing he wanted. For the same reason he had not told her this day was special for him in a mournful sort of way: twenty-six years ago, he had found his sister dead. Sansa hummed: she didn’t have a single clue. _Is it stupid to wish she could guess what’s going on without having to tell her?_

When he had woken up that morning, Sansa was in his arms. For a few seconds he had been caught between half-sleep and waking; he didn’t even knew what was the date. He nonetheless sensed there was something amiss, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Then, as he laid staring at the ceiling, he had remembered; a flood of images had made him snap his eyes closed for a second. Happy moments clashed with his memories of his sister’s small body on the floor; he even remembered how the blue and red lights of the local police car parked in front of his parents’ house cast strange hues on the kitchen wall. As his stomach pulled into a tight knot, Sansa was still asleep, her face buried in the crook of his neck; the notion she could be so close to him yet know nothing about his torments had struck him. His thoughts had turned to his sister and he had secretly hoped spending the day with Sansa would chase away nightmares and ghosts. He was wrong: the feeling of loss was still there, after all these years. _And in the end, you're on your own._ That was what he repeated himself when his sister, then his father had died. He gritted his teeth.

“The cone heels, please,” Sansa whispered. He now knew that cone heels were not like regular pumps: focusing on Sansa’s shoes hardly helped, though.

When the storage box was empty, he stood up, wincing as his thigh reminded him of his old wound. Her back to him and her hands on her hips, Sansa was admiring her shoe organizer, clueless about his melancholy. _I need you,_ he thought. He needed her warmth and the way she reassured him: he contemplated stepping forward and taking her in his arms but he didn’t move. _You don’t want to startle her, do you? You don’t want to ruin the moment._

“Did you ever consider-” His voice was gravelly, with a hint of hesitation that made her turn around at once. “Did you ever consider you could, you know, move into my place?” He didn’t know why he was saying this. _A fucking impulse,_ he would tell himself later.

Sansa’s eyebrow arched and she almost gasped at his question. “What?” she finally said. “Move in with you?” Her eyes drifted away from him and he wondered why he had even asked her as silence stretched. She finally bored into his eyes. “Is it a subtle way to propose, Sandor?” A half-smile played about her lips.

It was his turn to remain silent. _What the fuck? Why? I asked her if she thought we could live in the same house and she brings up marriage?_ The trust he read in her eyes confirmed his intuition. _She’s been waiting for this._ Feeling trapped, he swallowed hard and her shy smile froze.

Three months earlier, Sansa had whispered in his ear a convincing _‘I love you’_ after sex; it was clear she expected him to answer. He had tightened his grip on her and let the words die on his lips; never had Sansa confessed her feelings for him afterward. Tension and unease had lingered between them for a few days, then it had disappeared but they had never talked about it. He had tried to convince himself some things were better left unsaid and he shook away the memory every time something reminded him of that moment. _Fuck. Do it now. This is the moment you propose… Sansa, I-_

The words never came. He stood rooted to the spot, watching Sansa’s discomfited expression under her mask of bravery. _It’s too late,_ a little voice whispered in his head. _You screwed it up._ He had missed out on this chance and no matter what he would say or do afterward, something about Sansa’s features convinced him he could never make up for it.

“Well, that was awkward!” she commented, trying to sound cheerful. Watching her as she pretended to shrug off the incident although she was hurt was too much for him, so he stared at the shoe organizer behind her, then at the window. She exhaled deeply and in the periphery of his vision, he saw her tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and taking a step forward to close the distance between them. “Hey, look at me, Sandor!”

He didn’t and he kept his eyes on the stuff Sansa stored under the window of her bedroom: a yoga mat, a pile of books, her guitar case. With their non matching covers, the books looked a little messy. The things belonging to her used to reassure him but that day it reminded him of another pile of mismatched books stored under a window in another bedroom. His sister’s. He had stood in his sister’s bedroom after her death and he had stared at her stuff, not knowing why, just hoping she would come back. _I’m losing her. I’m losing Sansa and I don’t even realize it. It’s already too late._

“Sandor, look, I’m sorry I brought this up. I know…” She intended to sound reassuring but her voice was tinged with hurt. When she brushed his arm, he took a step back.

“No. You don’t know anything.” Her eyes widened; speechless, she dropped her arm and a single tear rolled down her cheek. _She doesn’t understand it’s too late._ “We fuck, we laugh, we have fun together… But in the end- In the end I’m not the man you need. I can’t give you what you need.”

“Sandor, don’t- Don’t do that.” Sansa wiped her wet cheek and held his gaze.

_I fooled myself for too long. And I fooled her._ He took a sharp intake of breath, grabbed her upper arms and said: “What you said was very clear. You want to marry. You were married twice, but apparently that wasn’t enough.”

“How dare you?” she hissed.

“You want a white dress, a fancy cake, a big party and big, fake smiles on the pictures. Well, you can have all that. Not with me, though. Pick someone else.” He stared at her and somehow he was the Hound again, the man who didn’t let anyone near him.

Her mouth dangled open before she started sobbing. Under his fingers, her muscles tensed then her whole body shook. _Look what you’ve done._ She wriggled away from him and her back hit the stupid shoe organizer in the process. “If I ever did something that hurt you, tell me, Sandor… Tell me what it is.”

His voice was awfully cold when he answered: “You didn’t do anything. Thought I could pretend and be the one you wanted me to become… I just realized I can’t. I fucking can’t, Sansa.”

“I never wanted you to become-”

“This is over.” As he cut her off, he took a step back and mentally estimated how many steps separated him from the entrance door. “There’s nothing else to add. I’m sorry.”

She pointed at him, angrily wiping her tears. “No, it’s not over! You can’t leave like this! We have to talk-”

“We had plenty of time to talk. And this isn’t working. Let’s face it-”

“You never talk to me about important things!” she shouted. “I swear I tried to talk about the future with you, but you don’t listen, you avoid every occasion we have to speak about what we want, about us. Look at yourself!” She sniffed. “I say _one little thing_ and you blow a fuse… Now you want to leave... You’re a fucking coward!” she spat.

Before walking out, he glanced at her one last time. She was shaking wildly, holding herself to her ridiculous shoe organizer. “We had good moments. But don’t fool yourself, girl. You bloody knew what kind of man I was the day you saw me in that elevator. You knew what I was capable of.”

He heard her sob because, as Sansa had just told him, he was too much of a coward to look at her. With his heartbeat loud in his ears, he headed to the entrance door, slammed it behind him and walked like a damn zombie to his truck.

* * *

A whiskey-induced haze blurred the rest of the day. He had locked himself in his house, lowered the blinds, and he kept his cellphone by his side, in case Sansa rang him. Not that he regretted anything and wanted to take her call to apologize if she ever tried to reach him; it was too late for apologies. He just wanted to make sure he’d quickly block her calls. Half a dozen times, he heard the distinctive ringtone he associated with Sansa and half a dozen times he chose not to answer. She needed to know it was over: the slightest doubt about the end of their relationship could turn into hope and hope was dangerous. Breaking off all ties was the only thing to do. _Stick to your guns. This is the only way._

Whiskey soothed him - up to a certain point - yet the day couldn’t go fast enough for his liking. He suddenly wished he could leave Quiet Isle at once and go to King’s Landing for the grand finale Brienne took part in. Out there, he would be able to focus on something else than his failures. A change of scene and some distraction: that was what he needed.

Brienne called him later that night to sort things out about their trip. He was already half-drunk at that time: he wasn’t used to drinking so much anymore in such a short amount of time. Brienne asked him what was wrong because she was a nosey bitch who stuck her nose into other people’s business. Giving her a piece of his mind gave him a short-lived satisfaction. Her offended silence made him snort a bitter laugh.

“What is it?” she insisted, sounding like the pain in the ass who claimed to be his English teacher in eighth grade.

“I’m not with Sansa anymore.” It felt real now that he had told someone.

“Wh-What?” she stammered. “Is this a joke or something?”

“If it’s a joke, it’s a cruel one. We broke up. I split up, I should say.”

“But why? Is it something Sansa did? Is it about her past?” Brienne inquired.

He chuckled darkly. “Why would it be about her? Why do you think it has something to do with her past? It’s about me. Not her fault, but my own. My fucking fault.”

Brienne remained silent for a second or two before going on: “So why don’t you call her and tell her you’re sorry?”

“Did I ask you for advice?” It seemed to Sandor, alcohol made him suddenly more eloquent than he usually was. “I don’t think I did, so shut the fuck up. I’m sorry if I hurt her feelings, but it was the only thing to do. We’re not on the same wave-length, Sansa and I. I should have seen this before.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A wedding, that’s what I’m talking about. Sansa wants a big, fat wedding with all the damn folklore. I don’t want any of this. She thought she wanted me but I’m not the man she needs.”

There was a silence and at some point Sandor asked himself if Brienne had hung up. When she finally spoke, her words were laced with disbelief. “So… She tells you she wants a traditional wedding and suddenly you lose it and you tell her it’s over? What kind of jerk dumps a girl for such a petty reason?”

“Spare me. I’m done with lectures.” He sounded self-confident but deep down he didn’t know how to answer to that. “This relationship wasn’t going anywhere. I ended it.” _Don’t listen to her. Don’t fucking listen to Brienne._

“In my world, people call it a fight, not a break up.” He could feel the tension in her voice as if she was quavering a bit. “Call Sansa. You’ve got to make this right.”

“Yeah… Nice try, Brienne. I wonder what entitles you to give me unsolicited advice. Your non existent love life, maybe?”

A silence again. “You’re a jerk, Sandor. You’re so convinced you ought to be unhappy it’s pathetic. Everyone can see you belong with her, but no, you have to wallow in grief and make people around you sad. I really hope for you it’s not too late-”

“Shut up, will you?” He heard his own voice trembling. He ran his hand over his forehead: his fingers were damp with sweat when he removed them. _When was the last time I felt this bad?_

Brienne heaved a sigh. “I’ll see you on Tuesday morning, then, when we’ll leave.”

“Wait a second, Brienne. Can you pick me up at my place and take me to the airport?”

She snorted. “Let me guess. Sansa was supposed to take you there? Well, Podrick offered to drive me to the airport: I guess I can ask him to make a detour and pick you up. Good night, Sandor.”

* * *

The morning after he was a mess. A mess who limped along in the gym, barked instead of talking and looked like death warmed over. People avoided him. Some whispered behind his back, he could tell.

_Things are just going back to normal. I’ve spent most of my adult life without a woman, so why should it feel strange? Being with someone is strange, not the other way around._

He had almost convinced himself he had done the right thing when the Elder Brother showed up. Ashen-faced and sporting dark rings under his eyes, the doctor had obviously got out of the bed on the wrong side.

“Can we talk?” he asked Sandor who swept the floor by the threadmills.

Sandor cast him a wary glance. “I guess we can.”

The Elder Brother followed him to his office and closed the door behind him. “So, how are you?” he asked Sandor.

“Never felt better,” Sandor replied with a sarcastic grin. “What about you?”

“I’m OK, I guess. But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve been talking to Sansa. What the hell did you think when you dumped her?”

“So what? She shows up at the hospital, she cries and suddenly you ask her what’s going on?”

Instead of answering, the Elder Brother remained silent and smiled at him: it was one of the old tricks he had used many times after Sandor’s arrival in Quiet Isle General Hospital: he smiled without uttering a word. _As if he knew something you didn’t._ After all these years, it still drove Sandor out of his mind and the doctor knew it.

“I bet she told you what an asshole I am,” Sandor went on, trying to sound unimpressed. “Guess what: she’s right. It took her six months to realize what kind of asshole I am. A surprisingly long period for a smart girl like her.”

“Are you done, here?” the Elder Brother asked, his smile fading. “Sansa is too dedicated to her job to show up crying at the hospital; she waited the end of her shift and asked me if I had heard about you. She told me a lot of things before I sent her home. As we are talking, she’s probably crying her eyes out. I’m her boss and I wonder for how long she can go on without sleeping or eating. As a friend, I want to know why you made such a crazy decision.”

The Elder Brother’s question was met with silence, he therefore added: “She... called you a coward, out of anger, apparently. She’s sorry and at the same time she wonders if she wasn’t right when she called you that.”

“It takes guts to end a relationship which is not going anywhere.” Sandor’s tone was even, as if he was past the point of caring. He sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms.

“Says who? Tell me who’s the bravest person: the man who breaks up because he doesn’t feel comfortable in the relationship he’s in, or the one who stays and does his best to make it work?”

Sandor snorted. “You’ve not been in a steady relationship in years and now you’re a sort of marriage counselor?”

“Touché. It doesn’t mean I can’t see what you’re doing right now. I know you better than most people do - Sansa aside.”  

Silence stretched, but none of them tried to put an end to it; it was part of their conversations, since they had met. The Elder Brother always gave him time to ponder over what they discussed and he sometimes said long silences spoke for themselves. Sandor stared at the sunburst wall clock. At some point, the Elder Brother pulled an armchair and sat down heavily.

“How are you?” Sandor asked him all of a sudden. “I mean, you look... tired.”

The Elder Brother ensconced himself in his seat and gave him a long look before answering: “When was the last time you asked me how I was- I’m not talking about some perfunctory _‘How are you?’_ When was the last time you asked about me and really meant your words?”

Sandor swallowed hard: bitterness was palpable in his friend’s tone. He tried to fight his pang of guilt by answering on the same tone, but no matter how hard he racked his brains, he didn’t find anything.

“When I said I came here as a friend, I meant I came as Sansa’s friend. I don’t know if we’re friends anymore, you and I.”

“Listen, I’m sorry...” Sandor began.

“It takes more than small talk to call yourself friends with someone,” the doctor went on. “What do you know about the choices I had to make during the last six months? About what makes me stay up all night? I tried to talk to you but it’s never the right time. I wonder how you can explain that.”

A lump in his throat, Sandor locked eyes with him. I’m such an asshole. “I’m sorry. I guess there’s no explanation.”

The Elder Brother shook his head slowly. “At first, I told myself you were so in love with Sansa and it was so exciting for you, you needed some time to adjust yourself. Then I thought you didn’t need me because you had Sansa. Old friends can’t compete with lovers, right? It wouldn’t make sense. I waited. I told myself you would turn to me again… You never did.” With a snort, he pushed himself from his seat.

“Are you sick?” Sandor inquired suddenly, wondering if his friend discerned the hint of apprehension in his tone. He hoped the reason why the Elder Brother couldn’t sleep at night wasn’t some sort of illness. _I can’t afford to lose him too._

“I’m not. Sorry to disappoint you if you were thinking I had Cancer,” the Elder Brother said bitterly. “Never been better, according to my colleagues. This job is what drives me mad. I’ve been thinking about retiring for months and a conversation with my friend would have helped, I guess, but I’ve taken my decision. I’ll leave Quiet Isle General before next summer.”

Ill-at-ease, Sandor struggled to hold his gaze. “I’m sorry. Seems like everybody sees me as a big-league asshole, these days.”

The Elder Brother snorted. “Self-pity, again. I thought you were done with this, but I guess I was wrong. As long as you wallow into self-pity, your apologies are worthless.”

Sandor wanted to react, to yell perhaps, but no words came.

His hand to the door handle, the Elder Brother added: “Tell Brienne I hope she comes back from King’s Landing with a medal or whatever it is they give to the champion. Good bye, Sandor.”

* * *

Since the moment they had entered the airport, Pod had been sending texts back and forth; whenever a text flashed up on his screen, he hurriedly answered something back. By the way he kept looking around in the hall as if he was waiting for someone Sandor could tell Pod had something on his mind: the kid nevertheless insisted on staying with them.

“Let me guess,” Sandor growled, leaning forward in his seat, his elbows digging in his thighs. “You met some hot air hostess at the restaurant you’re working at and you hope to see her again.”

Pod was sitting next to him and he turned to Sandor at once, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He stammered as he always did whenever someone saw through him. “N- no, Sandor, it’s not some air hostess.”

His embarrassed chuckle made Sandor’s brow furrow. “You’d better tell us who it is, then.”

“Well, it’s rather awkward-”

“Pod, don’t,” Brienne cut him off. Sandor turned to the tall and muscular blonde sitting next to him. _So she knows what’s going on and I’m the only one who doesn’t know what this is about. What is it?_

On his left, Pod’s leg was jumping. “Don’t bullshit me, kid. Tell me what’s going on,” Sandor demanded.

“I told you it was a fucking mistake, Pod,” Brienne hissed.

Pod gaped at that and seemingly forgot about Sandor’s presence. “No! You’ve got it all wrong. You’ll see. She’s going to come.”

_She’s going to come? What- No. They didn’t set me up..._

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Congratulations, Pod. If you relied on the element of surprise, it can’t work anymore, obviously. Remind me of _never_ trusting you with a secret.”

“What the fuck is this all about?” Sandor spat. People around them turned to look at him. As soon as they caught a glimpse at his scars, they looked away though.

Brienne and Pod exchanged a long look; she repaid Pod’s begging eyes with exasperation. In the end, she seemed to yield and sighed. “Pod had the brilliant idea to try to convince Sansa to come here before we go.”

“Never sleep on an argument, as they say,” Pod offered with a shrug.

In this case, he had already spent two nights tossing and turning on their argument - _which isn’t just an argument,_ he told himself. _It’s a break up._ “What made you think this is what I want?” he asked, addressing Pod.

Speechless, the boy stared at Sandor’s features: there was a hint of wariness in his narrowed eyes, as if he expected Sandor to go berserk any minute. Seemingly realizing the man was more detached than angry, he gulped before answering: “You know…” _No, I don’t._ “This whole story… it’s crazy to think you two broke. It can’t be the end of it.”

“You don’t give me or Sansa much credit, do you?” he asked Pod. Sandor’s words were now laced with bitterness. “You think we broke up by accident? You think I did it on an impulse? I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” It wasn’t completely true; it wasn’t a lie either. The notion they might break up someday had been there since the start, because, no matter what happened to him, Sandor always considered the worst-case scenario.

Podrick shook his head. _He doesn’t believe me._ There was something downright annoying in the boy who looked down at his cellphone, stubbornly clinging to the false hope Sansa might come to the airport before their plane took off.

_And what if she comes?_ Sandor’s heart skipped a beat. If Sansa did show up he had no idea how he would react; if he was being honest, he missed her too much not to run to her and squeeze her in his arms. He was weak and Pod knew it. _And what then?_ The old routine he and Sansa had was cozy but they couldn’t spend another six months avoiding serious discussions…

Staring at the flap board announcing departures, he was already making plans when Pod shifted nervously and accidentally nudged him in the ribs. Swiveling his head, he saw the boy sending some text before releasing a sigh. _He knows she doesn’t have much time if she wants to see me before we leave._

Never had he seen Pod so jittery; as they waited for the answer with bated breath, the young man couldn’t stop fidgeting in his seat.

When the phone buzzed again, Sandor took a sharp intake of breath. On his right, Brienne stood still; she nonetheless squeezed her eyes shut at some point, revealing her outward indifference was a lie. Pod looked down at his phone, read the answer but remained silent.

“Tell us,” Sandor managed to ask.

“She can’t make it.” Pod nervously rubbed the stye beneath his eye.

At that moment, Sandor felt like a part of him had fallen to the ground and broken into pieces. No matter how hard it was, he had to know. “Don’t lie to me.”

“She’s not coming, Sandor. I’m sorry. I thought...” His voice exuded vulnerability although there was no reason for him to take it to heart. Podrick had met Sansa only a few times; Sandor valued his opinion and enjoyed his company but he didn’t know if he could call him a friend. _Or could I?_

Brienne stood up and shouldered her satchel bag. “We should go. It’s already late. Thank you, Podrick...” Her voice seemed far away, like the announcement at the microphone and the rest. _She’s not coming._ His shoulders sagged. _So this is the end. For real._

Brienne’s hand on his shoulder roused him from his thoughts. “Come on, Sandor, let’s go.” For the first time since he had met her, Sandor noticed how reassuring she sounded, how caring too. Brienne was a rock for those who got past her less than seductive looks. He had a feeling she was the one who would take care of him during this trip to King’s Landing, not the other way around.

Responding to Brienne’s gentle touch, he got on his feet like a fucking sleepwalker and turned to Pod. “Thanks for the drive.”

Pod shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled his goofy smile. “Forget it. I wish-” he stopped short from saying more, then went on: “I’m going to try again-”

“No,” Sandor replied, adamant. “You won’t do anything, Pod, because… Someday I’ll be able to thank you for what you tried to do this morning, but right now, it looks like pouring fuel on the fire.” His tone was all but angry: there was just an unusual hint of resignation in his voice that made Podrick’s eyes widen. “If you want to help, don’t do anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chaper is the last one...


	13. Episode 13 - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden, he wished he could wrap his arms around her and comfort her. That was stupid: by rejecting her he had willingly given up the right to wipe her tears away. The extent of the damage was there, before his eyes, unmistakable; he had ruined the best thing he had ever had, trampled on her feelings and on his, just because he felt unworthy of her. Years ago, the Elder Brother had called his addiction to alcohol and violence his ‘self-destructive tendencies’: he had laughed at that, but that day, as his friend’s pale hand rested in his, he understood what the Elder Brother meant and he recognized his break-up with Sansa as the last avatar of his self-destructive behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underthenorthernlights beta-read this update: thank you dear!  
> First off, I apologize for not posting in a very long time. This final chapter is so long I had to split it in two…  
> If the last update offended anyone, I am truly sorry and I hope they’ll accept my apologies; when I wrote it, I never meant to hurt my readers but only tried to stay true to the story I imagined months ago.  
> I was very grateful for all the positive comments I received. I was also amazed by some readers’ open-mindedness when they explained why they were disappointed by the outcome of the update but nonetheless started exchanging views with me: this is probably why writing fanfiction is so important to me. I am aware this kind of story, favoring realism and a certain amount of darkness over fluff is not everyone’s cup of tea; I only regret that not everyone has the open-mindedness I mentioned above. One bad review kept me away from my keyboard for a while, but it didn’t change one iota of the ending: ‘Recovery’ was one of the first tags I added when I posted this and it’s true, this is the story of a man’s recovery.

_January 10th_

The neons in the hotel bar somewhat dazzled him, but after a few shots his eyes became accustomed to the lights.

The headache remained though - or did it grew more painful? The buzzing around Sandor brought him back to the years he had spent there, in King’s Landing, going on a pub crawl after the Lannisters dismissed him at the end of the day. The pubs where he used to drown his misery and his anger a few years ago weren’t as prim and proper as this hotel bar though. The rancid smell he couldn’t miss whenever he came in reminded him of the vicious circle of benders: you drink, you throw up, but you keep coming night after night because you don’t know how to tolerate yourself otherwise.

With its white and pink neons and slick decoration, the hotel bar was very different yet Sandor wondered if the days of heavy drinking were behind him; nothing was clear in his head since he had broken up with Sansa. _Sansa…_ She was a wound that would never heal, because he had wronged her. Guilt reopened the wound, rubbed it in, until he sank into the oblivion of sleep. Hunched over the bar counter, he played with the coaster where his glass had left a wet ring. There was a woman observing him on his left; tall, blonde with darker roots, hiding her late thirties under a much too short dress. Obviously looking for a man and ogling his biceps underneath the white fabric of his shirt.

It would be easy and a welcome distraction at that. Except he wasn’t interested.

The smell of vetiver filled his nostrils and Brienne materialized herself next to him. He swiveled his head, sat up straight and took in her still damp hair and fresh clothes - a somewhat masculine, baby blue buttoned-down shirt which matched her eyes and a pair of navy chino pants. By her own standards, Brienne was dressed to the nines. If he wasn’t half-drunk already, he would ask himself why a woman who didn’t give two fucks about her looks had made such a big effort.

Brienne’s eyes went from Sandor’s face to the blonde woman further on his left then drifted back to Sandor again, before frowning ever so slightly: “What are you doing?” she asked him in an undertone. She sounded reproachful. _Fuck you, Brienne._

Instead of answering, he lifted his empty glass which bottom was stained with whisky. Brienne’s frown deepened as she considered the amber liquid remaining in the glass.

“Let’s swallow something solid, for a change,” she told him. It was not a suggestion but a command.

He reluctantly pushed himself from his seat and let the tall woman lead him inside the restaurant; he had lost his appetite since his breakup, but if it was what that den mother named Brienne Tarth expected of him, he’d follow her like a lapdog and eat what she would order for him. The waiter, a little runt seemingly ill-at-ease with the odd couple they formed, gave them a quiet table next to the window before Brienne asked for another one, much more central. _What is she doing?_ Brienne’s counter demand briefly made him frown, before he slipped back into his drunken haze.

Brienne skimmed through the menu and heaved a sigh. “I’ll have the Roasted Filet of Beef Tenderloin,” she said.

“What about your diet?” he slurred, by reflex.

“Fuck my diet, I made it to the finale, but I lost. Remember? You were somewhere behind me, next to the boxing ring, but you looked absent.”

Sandor could never forget the last boxing match of the competition; he remembered the spectators yelling in the arena, the look of distress on Brienne’s face until some blond jerk Sandor had known years ago had told them she had fought bravely and she should be proud of herself. _The fucker thought it made things easier…_ For now bitterness prevailed. “Are you going to rebuke me for this until your last fucking breath?”

“Some people say I should.” Her tone was curt; despite his inebriation, he perceived the underlying weariness in her words. “You told me once an athlete wins alone and loses alone. Very Clegane, this motto.”

His elbows on the table, he leaned forward, expecting her to sit back because of his breath. “I say lots of bullshit…”

She rolled her eyes and gave the waiter a perfunctory smile when he stopped by their table. “Have you ordered yet?”

“I’ll have the Roasted Filet of Beef Tenderloin,” she answered.

“Sir?” the waiter asked, addressing Sandor.

He cleared his throat but it didn’t make his tongue any less furred when he finally replied: “Not hungry.”

“Two Roasted Filets of Beef,” Brienne intervened.

The waiter nodded approvingly and gave a faint smile. “Have you chosen what you want to drink? We have an excellent-”

“Water,” Brienne cut him off, glaring at Sandor whose smile infuriated her, most likely. “Bring us two bottles of sparkling water. Please.” With that, she held out the menu for the waiter to take it. _Sparkling water? This crap is usually salty: I guess she really gave up on her diet._

“Satisfied?” he asked once the waiter was gone. “You made sure I wouldn't drink anymore tonight, you ordered food for me…”

Brienne leaned forward slightly, the electric light bringing out her freckles. “I’m considering… Maybe I’ll empty the minibar in your hotel room before going to bed,” she confessed.

“Don’t you dare…”

“You’ll thank me one day.” Silence stretched, only disturbed by the sound of silverware and the muffled, polite conversations of the other customers. “Did you call her, Sandor?”

There was no need to precise who she was talking about. “She doesn’t want to hear from me. I’m the shit who broke up with her, after all.”

The waiter was back with the bottles of water, offering him a short respite.

“Do as I tell you. For once, listen to other people.” Brienne sounded adamant yet she couldn’t force him to call Sansa.

There was nothing she could do, he told himself to set his mind at rest. He looked at Brienne straight in the eye and shrugged ostensibly.

“Day after day, you’re perfecting your part of the disillusioned asshole. Keep up the good job and someday you’ll win an Oscar.” Brienne Tarth might be a pain in the ass and a know-it-all, but she had a disarming way to put him in his place. He almost liked it, although he would never admit it in front of her.

The waiter came back with their food and they ate silently; he wasn’t hungry at all. Sandor noticed how Brienne kept glancing at the restaurant main entrance, somewhere behind him. _What is she doing?_ Between two mouthfuls, she observed their surroundings, always silent, with something akin to reluctance in her eyes. He stopped eating, put his fork down on the tablecloth and watched her every move. Brienne tried to pull the wool over his eyes by eating heartily and looking relaxed, but her carefully chosen clothes and her glances couldn’t fool him. A realization dawned upon him and he snorted, thus drawing Brienne’s attention on his lopsided smile.

“What?” she asked after dabbing her mouth with a white damask napkin.

“You’re expecting to see Jaime Lannister.” It wasn’t a question. As Brienne’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly, his smile broadened.

Jaime had been the one who had tried to comfort Brienne after she had lost. Sandor had lost touch with him after leaving King’s Landing and so had Brienne, from what he had gathered. He remembered Jaime’s exasperating smirk and the casual haughtiness that was his trademark, but the blond man had lost his glory, along with his right hand. Sandor had been too busy trying to forget the Lannisters and his cumbersome past to pay attention to the news coming from King’s Landing: he knew Cersei was in prison, he knew Joffrey and Tywin had been murdered because it was difficult to ignore crimes that made the headlines, but he had no idea Jaime had lost his hand until he saw his stump. How the ladykiller had met Brienne Tarth and what they had done together remained a mystery but Sandor would stake his life on it: she had a crush on Jaime Lannister. She intended to talk to him that night.

“After all, we’re leaving the day after tomorrow,” he added, lifting his glass full of sparkling water with a playful smile. “You only live once.”

Brienne had turned bright red. “I hate you,” she mouthed. The people who organized the competition had booked plane tickets for them and when Brienne had asked why they had to stay in King’s Landing three more days after the finale, instead of going back to Quiet Isle, a prick with a fancy suit and a cheap and strong cologne had told her they had obligations, whether she won or not, like meeting sponsors and giving interviews to two different sports magazines. The day after Brienne and the winner had a photoshoot for one of these magazines.

She ran her fingers through her flaxen hair and heaved a sigh before folding her arms.

“What makes you think he will come here?” Sandor asked. Imagining a woman like Brienne with Jaime Lannister had somewhat sobered him up.

She didn’t answer and he was about to repeat his question when he noticed the look of panic on her face; as her eyes followed something moving behind Sandor, she swallowed hard. “Don’t turn around,” she muttered, but it was already too late; Sandor glanced over his shoulder and saw Jaime Lannister striding toward their table, a large grin on his face. As Jaime walked, Sandor spotted at least two women and a waiter doing a double take on him. Cersei’s beloved twin stopped next to them and the charm offensive began.

“So… what do we have here? A former lout who’s now walking the straight and narrow and my favorite wench.”

 _Wench?_ Sandor almost choked on his water.

“You know you two form the most intriguing team I ever met?” Jaime went on. “What have you been eating? Their filet of beef? I didn’t remember you were such a big eater, wench…” he trailed off, glancing at Brienne’s empty plate. She turned crimson. “I didn’t remember Sandor lacked appetite, that being said.”

“Long time no see, Jaime,” Sandor rasped. Jaime had almost ignored him the day before, in the aftermath of Brienne’s defeat. “Why don’t you join us?”

The waiter brought another plate and silverware for Jaime, calling him _‘Mister Lannister’_ ; on the evidence of the waiter’s obsequious smile and servile manners, there were places where the Lannisters weren’t completely forgotten.

For the rest of the evening, Jaime made conversation and told them what he had been doing for the last couple of years while eating his sole meunière. After the legal proceedings which had led Cersei in jail and ruined the Lannisters, Jaime was broke. His stump and his family name weren’t exactly the best assets to get himself a job, so he had turned to sports betting to make a living. He had used his connections among gamblers and small-time crooks to get good tips; that was how he had survived and why he was in the boxing arena the night before as Brienne faced Obara Sand.

When Jaime and Brienne started alluding to their common past, a mysterious trip to King’s Landing they had made years before, Sandor felt he was in the way. There was something different about Brienne that night, a gleam in her big blue eyes and a hint of nervousness in her gestures too. Sandor knew he could have been angry at her and at Jaime for being so obviously flirting before the eyes of a man who had just broken up, yet he wasn’t. The world didn’t stop turning the moment he had left Sansa crying in front of her brand-new shoe-organizer. People around him kept moving in on others and having sex and being happy. They would continue falling in love and breaking up. _Such is life…_ Sandor was past anger; a sort of resignation had taken over him. He realized it as he watched Jaime Lannister leaning forward to get closer to a somewhat intimidated Brienne.

All of a sudden, he made his chair creak and got on his feet: “I’d better leave you two and go to bed.” He grabbed his wallet, took two twenty-dollar bills and told himself it would be enough for a roasted filet and a bottle of that damn sparkling water.

“Wait a minute,” Brienne said. “I don’t want you to go back to the bar…”

Jaime’s eyes went from her to Sandor and a quizzical look appeared on his face. “What is this all about?”

Sandor sighed. “I broke up.

“Meaning, you had a girlfriend? You, Clegane?”

Sandor chuckled darkly at that. “Brienne is concerned about my… ability to stay away from bars and places selling liquor. I’m not going to get plastered, Brienne,” he said softly, looking at her straight in the eyes. “I don’t feel like it. I’d rather go to bed and leave you two talking or… whatever.”

Brienne pushed herself from her seat. “I’d better go with you and-”

“And make sure the minibar of my room is empty? It already is. I didn’t eat the peanuts but…”

Brienne bit her lip; his remark had not swept away her doubts. “I should-”

“Leave him be, Brienne,” Jaime whispered, placing his valid hand on Brienne’s arm. “I’m sure Sandor will behave.” There was something tender about his gesture and for Sandor it brought back the memory of his own hand around Sansa’s wrist, of their first tentative touches and later, of their heated couplings, when he pinned her hands high above her head. _Why does a friend’s chance of happiness make me so sad?_

“Good night,” he said, for lack of anything wittier, and he left the restaurant.

A hot shower didn’t wipe out his melancholy; it did help him relax, though. He was anything but enthusiastic when he opened his suitcase and tried to find the clothes he would wear for the interview the morning after. Brienne would be the centre of the attention, with the perpetually scowling Obara Sand, yet he didn’t want to embarrass her. Brienne had been a sort of guardian angel for him since they had left Pod at the airport; she had tried to make him talk, to cheer him up when she could, to keep him out of trouble. _She’s here for me. I don’t want to disappoint her._

A buttoned-down shirt and a pair of jeans would do; he placed them on the back of the only chair in his room and collapsed on the bed after putting on a pair boxer shorts. He had just turned on the TV when his phone rang. Sandor looked at it suspiciously, but as he didn’t recognize the number, he picked up. “Yes?”

A young voice answered. “Hey buddy.” _Rickon._ He snapped his eyes shut, wondering if he should hang up or not.

“Hi, Rickon.” He let out a sigh and turned off the TV.

“So… I heard you and Sansa split.”

“I did… I made the decision,” Sandor explained. “I can’t give her what she wants. She’s better off without me.”

“Says who?” Rickon protested. “She loves you. I barely recognized her voice when she called me…”

Sandor ran his hand down his face and sat up. “Listen, Rickon, you have every right to be mad at me because I hurt your sister. Now if you called to tell me how she suffers and to make me feel guilty, you’re wasting your time. I can’t possibly feel worse for what I did to her.”

There was a silence. “I don’t want to make you feel guilty. I know you already feel bad. I guess I just wanted to convince you to talk to her…”

 _Why does everybody seems to know better than myself what I should do?_ He let out a sigh. “Talking to her would only make her suffer more than she already does and reopen fresh wounds. Silence is a mercy in this case.”

Sandor waited for Rickon’s answer then started wondering what the boy had in mind when nothing came. _Is he going to hang up?_

“But do you want to talk to her?” Rickon asked. “I mean… you’re talking about how you should keep silent so you don't hurt her again and all this bullshit, but this silence, is it what you want?”

He opened his mouth to answer but words were stuck in his throat. For more than a couple of days now, people had been telling him what he ought to do and why, people had scolded him, made him feel guilty and perhaps he deserved it - although he kept asking himself in the name of what people judged his actions. Nobody had asked him what he really wanted. _Peace. No, it’s not peace I want. I want her back. The only reason I don’t call her is because it’s too late._

“Why?” Rickon finally asked. “Why did you decide to leave her, like this, out of the blue?” He sounded a bit angry now.

Sandor snorted; he suddenly remembered how Rickon and he had lunch on the bench outside the gym, on a sunny day, and how the boy’s question had triggered something in him…

“Why?” he replied. “You wanna know why, Rickon? You asked me what was my next move, back in July. You asked if I was going to propose. I didn’t stop thinking about it since that day. Your question fucked me up, boy, because I knew I couldn’t find the courage to do it. Hell no, I couldn’t. You can call me a coward, you can fucking laugh at me, for all I care: your question was the first domino.”

He heard Rickon’s breathing on the other end, then a throat clearing. “It was just a joke, Sandor. It was months ago…” Since he had left Sansa on that Sunday afternoon, some people who didn’t give two shits about his own feelings had implied it was time he’d stop finding excuses for what he had done to Sansa; now it was Rickon who was desperately looking for excuses.

“You see, Rickon, people keep blaming me for what I did, and it’s fine, I deserve it. They don’t see the bigger picture though. A couple is not two persons living on a desert island; they’re in the middle of a crowd and the people around influence them, whether they like it or not, whether they realize it or not. Sometimes the crowd pushes one of them into the other’s arms, sometimes the crowd tears them apart. I wonder if those people telling me what I should do are aware of the part they played in this, by saying things, by asking questions. By making innocent jokes.”

He was harsh; maybe he was being a bastard with the kid yet he couldn’t say he regretted it. For the first time since he had stormed out of Sansa’s apartment, he had told someone what had truly weighing on him. The way people had looked at him, expected things of him that had consequences they perhaps didn’t suspect. It didn’t mean he didn’t take full responsibility for what he had done, just that he was aware of whatever influence others had on his actions. _Only fools think they’re immune from the way other people look at them. Only fools think their decisions are only theirs._

“Look…” Rickon said timidly. “I had no idea you would be hurt. I’m… I’m sorry, man.”

“It doesn’t matter, now.”

“What are you going to do? You know, when you come back from King’s Landing.”

It was also the first time in days someone asked him what he intended to do instead of telling him what was best. “Don’t know yet.” As he uttered these words, he briefly saw himself knocking at Sansa’s door before remembering it was too late. _Or is it?_

He stayed for a long time lying on the covers that night, eyes open, the cool air of the hotel room eliciting goosebumps on his bare chest and legs. And when he finally sank into sleep he was too tired to know if he was in King’s Landing or Quiet Isle, single or still in a relationship with a woman he had loved for years.

The annoying ring of his phone woke him up at six. He growled, reached for his phone and picked up.

“Sandor Clegane?” an unknown feminine voice asked him.

“Yes, speaking.”

He heard a rustle of papers as if the woman talking to him was busy doing something else, then she said, visibly to another person. “No Ma’am, you have to stay here and wait. Dr. Campanella will be here in a minute… Sorry about that, Sir,” she told him finally.

Sandor’s heart skipped a bit. _Dr. Campanella?_ Campanella was a female surgeon who worked in the E.R at Quiet Isle General. _Why in Hell does the E.R. call me at 6:00? Sansa..._

“Sir, I’m calling you about Dr. Knight. You know him, right? The Elder Brother… I mean, Dr. Knight had a heart attack during his night shift. You’re the first name on his list of persons we need to call in case of accident.”

“How is he?” He could barely breathe; the image of the Elder Brother collapsing in the hallways of the hospital superimposed with his old and recent memories of the good doctor; his knowing look when he had first seen Sandor with Sansa after they had spent an hour in that damn elevator, his ashen face and his bitter words the last time they had met, his smiling eyes when Sandor had woken up in a hospital room, years ago. _‘Am I dead?’_ he had asked the Elder Brother that day, making him laugh. _‘Not yet. You’re in a bad shape, but I don’t think we’d get rid of you easily.’_

_I don’t want him to die._

“He’s in intensive care for now, sir, but the doctors are optimistic. Had he had this heart attack at his place, things would have been different, but as it happened here we took good care of him.”

Sandor stood up, ran his hand down his face and opened his suitcase with no need to think over it for more than a split second. “Huh… OK. I’m not in Quiet Isle right now, I’m in King’s Landing but I’m going to take the first flight to see him. Thanks.”

He hung up. It was obvious. Quiet Isle was the place where he needed to be right now. He hurried to the shower, hardly dried off then got dressed quickly. It took him two minutes to pack and two more to call a cab. Once it was done, he closed his door and walked to Brienne’s room. He had to tell her why he was leaving so abruptly. The first knock at her door didn’t seem to wake her up so he knocked again, harder this time. Sighing as he looked at the peephole, he told himself Brienne was probably the kind of woman who slept with flannelette pyjamas and earplugs: in all likelihood she had not heard him at first. _Fuck, Brienne, open up, or I’ll have to bang on this door and wake up everyone._

Finally, he heard the clicking sound announcing Brienne was unlocking the door and she cracked the door open. Sandor couldn’t tell if he was surprised to see her frown at his early visit, yet there was something about her appearance that disturbed him: was it her dishevelled blond hair or the sheet she had hastily wrapped around her body before opening to him? Suddenly she didn’t look like a woman who wore flannelette pyjamas and slept with earplugs. Her reluctance to open puzzled him too, but he was in such a hurry he kept his thoughts for himself.

“Sorry to disturb your sleep, B. I just had a call from Quiet Isle: the Elder Brother had a heart attack and… I don’t know how he is exactly but I want to be there when he wakes up. I’m going to the airport.”

Brienne was speechless. She looked even less comely with her mouth dangling open. “What?” she asked, holding the sheet tightly against her flat chest. “A heart attack? Of course I understand but… the interview today?”

“I didn't do a very good job at coaching you since we arrived here and by the way, you’re the one they want to talk to. You don’t need me. I think the Elder Brother does.” He tried to smile encouragingly. “Look Brienne, I’m sorry I was such a bad coach. And a bad friend. Hope you can forgive me.”

As Brienne was visibly looking for something to reply, Sandor heard a noise behind her and suddenly the dishevelled hair, the sheet wrapped around her made sense. _She’s not alone._ Under the dim light of the hallway, Brienne glanced over her shoulder while her cheeks turned crimson.

“I believe there’s a sign you can put on your door handle,” Sandor teased her. “It says _‘do not disturb’_.”

“Very funny. What am I to do with your airplane ticket?” she retorted, trying to change the subject.

“Give it to Jaime fucking Lannister.” When Brienne’s jaw dropped in shock, he suppressed a smile. He had broken Sansa’s heart and his at the same time, his friend was in intensive care but somehow the idea of Brienne getting laid lifted his spirits. The fact she had had sex with no other than Jaime Lannister was kind of amusing. _The fashion-plate and the tomboy. Quite a couple._

A muffled laugh coming from inside the hotel room confirmed his theory; Sandor smiled at Brienne who still stood there goggling, he turned around and hurried to the elevator.

* * *

The flight was a short one but he was unable to sit still; his leg kept moving up and down, earning Sandor glares from his two neighbors. Later, after he hired a car at the airport as he had left his truck in his garage, on the road to Quiet Isle General Hospital he fulminated against the slow coach who delayed him. _As if that pouring rain wasn’t fucking enough._

When Sandor finally arrived at the hospital, he felt a constriction in his chest: despite the rather reassuring news he had received, he didn’t know what to expect when he’d see his friend. _Please, I don’t want him to die._ Was this silent prayer addressed to a God he had never believed in? _Fuck, I don’t know._ The all-too-familiar smell of disinfectant sickened him as he strode the hallways after a brief stop at the information desk to inquire if his friend was still in intensive care: he wasn’t and that was good news. _I didn’t know I needed him so much._ Sandor stopped in front of the door that led to where the Elder Brother was lying on a bed and he closed his eyes for a second, restraining himself from knocking too hard. Then he waited. No answer came but he decided to push the door open nonetheless.

The Elder Brother was there, on a bed that seemed too small for his tall frame. Sandor immediately noticed his waxy complexion and the pointless effort his friend made to sit up.

“No, no,” Sandor muttered, walking to the bedside. Overcome by fatigue, the Elder Brother had hardly lifted his head when he gave up, sinking into the bed again. With the drip and the other tubes tying him to the medical devices around his bed every attempt to move was doomed to failure.

Bending over his old friend, Sandor smiled at him. The Elder Brother gave him a long look before whispering: “Am I dead?”

His words echoed those Sandor had uttered years ago, in the same hospital, after Arya had left him for dead by the roadside. The man who was now lying in bed, struck down with a heart attack, had been towering over him that day and Sandor still remembered his mental roll of eyes when he had spotted the preordained name of his savior on the immaculate coat he wore. _‘Doctor Knight. Great. So who am I? A hairy kind of damsel in distress?’_

There was something ironic about the role reversal and Sandor suspected the Elder Brother remembered their very first exchange; he had chosen these words on purpose.

“You, dead? Not yet,” Sandor replied.

“What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay in King’s Landing for a couple of days more…”

Sandor shifted from foot to foot. “Thought you’d need me more than Brienne does. The lady who called me said something about my name being on top on your list… You know, the list of persons the hospital staff calls in case of accident.” There was an embarrassed silence, then he added: “If I still was on your list, I told myself I had to be here with you.”

The Elder Brother stared at him and for a split second, Sandor wondered if what he saw in the corner of his friend’s eye was a tear; on an impulse, he took the doctor’s hand, squeezed it gently and through the wordless look they exchanged, he knew that the one-way ticket he had bought a couple of hours before had been the best decision he had made in a while. He also realized everything was forgotten.

“I’m not going anywhere. You won’t get rid of me so easily,” he told the Elder Brother, trying to sound cheerful. “My turn to take care of you.”

“You’re not exactly the nurse of my dreams, Sandor.” His acerbic tone brought a smile on Sandor’s lips.

“A pair of tits making your heart race is the last thing you need, right now,” he countered.

The doctor sighed: “You have a point.”

An intern came in to check on the Elder Brother, then sneaked out of the room, as if he feared to disturb the patient; it was one of the things that had always surprised Sandor: the way nurses, interns and even his fellow doctors almost worshipped the Elder Brother, who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

“You told me the other day you had never been better, according to your colleagues,” Sandor said once they were alone. “What happened?”

“My cardiologist wasn’t as… optimistic as the others. He told me not to overestimate my strength. He was the only one who sounded a bit worried so...”

Sandor shook his head slowly, exhaling a deep breath. “... so you chose to ignore his warning.”

The Elder Brother shrugged tentatively. When someone knocked at the door again, Sandor expected to see the intern coming back with his apologetical look, but instead of the young man he saw red locks framing an oval face. _Sansa._ She didn’t wear her usual coat but a pair of black jeans and a loose sweater; her hair was damp because of the rain outside. He remembered from the schedule she had left on his fridge she didn’t work that day.

She looked just as surprised when she spotted him, the sight of her ex boyfriend making her freeze mid-stride. Sansa swallowed hard; maybe she considered running away before the situation became even more embarrassing.

“I should probably leave,” he whispered, addressing the Elder Brother. “I’ll come back to see you later and-” When he tried to remove his hand, the doctor prevented him from doing so by holding it tighter.

“Stay here with me.” Saying ‘no’ to the Elder Brother had never been easy.

In the meanwhile, Sansa had regained her composure, walked around the bed and she now stood opposite to Sandor, the hospital bed being the only thing that separated them. It was the first time they were in the same room since he had left her and obviously she intended to ignore him the best she could since she couldn’t get rid of him.

“I came as fast as I could,” she told the Elder Brother, “but I left the hospital last night and no one called to tell me what had happened. If it wasn’t for one of the girls who called me about something else I wouldn’t even know you had a heart attack.”

“It’s OK,” the doctor replied, giving a hint of a smile. “Had you arrived earlier you would have found me asleep. I woke up only minutes before Sandor’s arrival. He took the first flight when he got the news, apparently.”

Sansa grabbed the doctor’s free hand, thus mirroring her ex boyfriend’s gesture. At that very moment, Sandor’s eyes fell on his own hand, wrapped around the Elder Brother’s fingers, then they followed the older man’s arm up to his shoulder covered by a blueish hospital gown; his eyes lingered on the white lining of the gown, then resumed their wandering: his friend’s shoulder, the arm emerging from the covers and at the end of it, Sansa’s fingers gently squeezing the Elder Brother’s. The ashen-faced, sick doctor was the only link between them and this idea struck Sandor. A heart attack had been necessary to bring them back in the same room, face to face. _A heart attack, isn’t it ironic?_

Sansa kept her eyes on the Elder Brother’s face with a sort of obstination about her that reminded Sandor of why she used to exasperate him when they met and why he had cherished her afterward. He could see the dark circles under her eyes; he knew he was the one to blame if she didn’t sleep at night. All of a sudden, he wished he could wrap his arms around her and comfort her. That was stupid: by rejecting her he had willingly given up the right to wipe her tears away. The extent of the damage was there, before his eyes, unmistakable; he had ruined the best thing he had ever had, trampled on her feelings and on his, just because he felt unworthy of her. Years ago, the Elder Brother had called his addiction to alcohol and violence his ‘self-destructive tendencies’: he had laughed at that, but that day, as his friend’s pale hand rested in his, he understood what the Elder Brother meant and he recognized his break-up with Sansa as the last avatar of his self-destructive behavior.

Sansa asked the Elder Brother how it had happened and what the doctors had told him but as the concerned party didn’t have much detail to share, the conversation quickly wound down, and they stayed silent for a while before a nurse came in and told Sansa and Sandor to wait outside. Tight-lipped, Sansa obeyed and he followed her in the hallway; she made sure of keeping her distance with him. With her arms folded about her chest and her eyes downcast, she looked both angry and nervous; he couldn’t blame her.

“Sansa,” he called softly, moving closer.

She instantly stepped aside. “What?” she said, after a long silence exuding hostility. “You thought you just had to show up and I’d throw myself in your arms? I thought you were done with all this. I thought you weren’t interested in a girl whose dreams include a big wedding party and kids.” Further in the corridor, two nurses apparently disturbed in their chattering swiveled their head; all of a sudden, Sansa shut up and bit her lip.

Sandor remained silent, taking the blow.

“I’m not talking to you,” she added, lower this time.

 _You are._ Had she understood what he wanted before he knew it? In all likelihood, Sansa suspected the Elder Brother’s heart attack wasn’t the only reason Sandor had come back so fast from King’s Landing. It was true: the call he had received at daybreak had been the trigger but before that, the notion he had to head back home and make amends was there. Only had he managed to push that thought down into the recesses of his mind for a moment.

The nurse who was inside with the Elder Brother opened the door again and told them to come in; Sansa bombarded her with questions about the doctor’s health but the only answer she got was that the cardiologist would visit Doctor Knight the day after and tell the patient what awaited him.

“Sandor, do you think you can be here when my colleague stops in?” the Elder Brother asked.

Forestalling her ex boyfriend, Sansa announced: “I can be here. I'm more qualified…” She stopped short from saying more. “I’ll ask one of the girls to take my shift-”

“You won’t do that,” the Elder Brother cut her off. “Sandor will take care of it. Right, Sandor?”

Under the two men’s scrutiny, the redhead frowned deeply but the Elder Brother sounded so adamant she finally agreed with reluctance. Although he couldn’t blame her for being on the defensive, it was clear Sansa’s attitude had changed the atmosphere. He wondered how much the tension between them affected the Elder Brother, and if Sansa realized it. She acted as if she didn’t want to give ground, as if she intended to stay until Sandor yielded and left first. _I am the reason she’s so angry._ In the end, Sandor asked the Elder Brother if he needed anything and took his leave. He hardly had taken a few steps in the hallway when he heard the door opening, then closing behind him. Sansa had followed him, but when he turned to glance at her, she ignored him and lengthened her stride, easily overtaking Sandor.

* * *

Whether it was because of the Elder Brother’s heart attack worried him sick or because of the tension when he had seen Sansa, he felt worn out and stopped at the cafeteria before going back to the parking lot. He didn’t feel hungry enough to eat but he found comfort in the appalling quality of coffee at the hospital cafeteria: at least there were things that would never change, like the weak, bitter taste of this dishwater they brewed.

On his way to the parking lot, he thought of the things he needed to do: call Brienne, apologize again and ask how the interview had gone; swing by the gym and see if Barristan could work so he could go to the hospital the day after to hear whatever the Elder Brother’s cardiologist had to say; find someone to accompany him to the car rental agency in Quiet Isle to return the sedan he had hired at the airport. _I’ll ask one of the guys at the gym. Lem, maybe?_

It was still raining and although it was the early afternoon, dark clouds filled the sky, forcing drivers to use their headlights in the middle of the day. When he saw Sansa, she had her back to him and she was visibly overwrought; he heard her curse as she opened the hood of her car.

“Got trouble with your car?” he asked, making her turn around.

She was soaked to the skin and it only made her look fiercer. “I’m going to call a repair shop. I’ll be fine,” she snapped, slamming the hood.

Ignoring her glare, Sandor came closer. “Let me guess. You forgot to turn off your headlights before leaving your car and the battery ran out?”

There was a silence as she hung her head, her damp hair partly concealing her face. “I don’t need your help, Sandor,” she first whispered. Without any other warning, she raised her eyes and almost barked: “I’m fine! I know what you’re doing and I don’t want your charity.”

“Who talked about charity? If you call a garage, the guy will charge you and he’ll probably try to make you buy a new battery you don’t need. I have cables at my place-”

“I told you I didn’t want-”

“Sansa, you need a favor, I need one too. I hired a car at the airport because I didn’t want to waste time and now I need someone to accompany me to my place, take my car and drive with me to the car rental in Quiet Isle. You help me, I help you. We’ll be square.”

She chewed her lip, then pushed aside her wet locks with exasperation. “I guess I could seize the opportunity to take the things I left at your place,” she finally said, avoiding his gaze.

It felt like a slap in the face, yet he said nothing and let the raindrops run down his forehead and cheeks. Sansa took her purse, locked her car and followed him to the sedan he had hired.

The short drive to Sandor’s house was a quiet one; only did she break the awkward silence after they left the town. "I heard Brienne lost her boxing match."

"Bad coach," he explained. "I take all the blame."

"That's what you keep doing, taking all the blame. Does it make you feel any better?"

He didn't answer and asked her instead: "Why didn't you go to my place when I was in King's Landing if you wanted your things back ? You have the key. I wouldn't have been there to bother you. "

In the periphery of his vision, he saw her shrug. "I don't know." After her glares and her cutting answers, her sudden hesitation unsettled him. In King’s Landing, he had had a dream about her going to his house during his absence, removing her clothes, her beauty products and leaving the key inside his mailbox. This key, he had feared to find it when he got home.

Once he parked the car in his driveway, he told her he would check on his truck and take all he needed to recharge the battery of her car. Watching her go inside the house to get back her belongings would be like witnessing the final act of their relationship, so he hurried to his garage and looked for cables to fix Sansa’s battery. It took him a couple of minutes, as he didn’t remember where he had last seen the cables. He made sure he had his toolbox in his truck and finally, he headed to the car parked in his driveway, imagining Sansa had packed her things in the meantime. If she had not have enough time to do so, he would wait.

The rain had stopped. Sandor heaved a sigh and gazed at the hired car; behind the windshield still shining with raindrops, he could see Sansa, staring into space, still sitting on the passenger seat. She had not moved since he had switched off the ignition. A realization dawned upon him. _She had the opportunity to go inside, take her stuff and put an end to our relationship. She didn’t._

She probably felt his eyes on her for she turned slightly to face him; he stepped closer, opened the car door and asked softly: “Are you ready to go?” She nodded. _Why didn’t she take her things?_ He buried the thought away yet something had changed in Sansa’s eyes. _I know she didn’t take her things and she realized it._ Perhaps this question was best avoided. “Do you know where the car rental agency is?” She nodded again. “Good. I’ll follow you then.”

As Sansa settled herself in the driver’s seat, then maneuvered to exit his driveway, he observed her, wondering about her sudden turnaround. Had she simply forgotten she wanted to get her belongings back as she waited in the car? The explanation didn’t satisfy him, and once again, he found himself dissecting her every move, knowing well it would bring more questions than answers.

 


	14. Episode 13 - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry. For this... and for the rest.”  
> As he uttered these words, he told himself his excuses were so pathetic she might slap him in the face for reminding her of their break-up; Sansa’s answer nevertheless blew his mind.  
> “I know,” she whispered, briefly holding his gaze. As timid as their eye contact was, Sandor knew this look would haunt him. She bit her lip again, let her eyes fall to the floor, folded her arms in a self-protective gesture and even though the setting had changed and so many things had changed between them since that time, he felt like he had when they had run into each other in the elevator of Quiet Isle General Hospital. Tension, hope, nothing of this was new. It was happening again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting in a while. Again.
> 
> No special warning. The events described in this update take place between January and June.

_January 12th_

Sandor still wondered about Sansa’s behavior at his place - first expressing her anger and saying she wanted to get her things back, then seemingly forgetting about it - when he met the Elder Brother’s cardiologist, the day after.

The Elder Brother’s cardiologist, a pedantic man well into his fifties, with a curious chinstrap beard, was adamant: even if his patient seemed out of danger, he would not go back to work for months, at the very best, and should even retire. During his recovery, he couldn’t stay alone. When the Elder Brother tried to reassure him by saying he could have a nurse come daily and make sure he was alright, the cardiologist snorted and turned to Sandor, as if he wanted him to back him up.

“Do you think your friend paid attention to what I said? For Christ’s sake! If you had had this heart attack somewhere else, if it had happened at your place, your friend and I would be standing in some graveyard by now,” he went on, addressing the Elder Brother, “us wearing fine black suits and you, esteemed colleague, lying six feet under. We were hardly able to save you!” He sighed, then he added, softening: “You need some surgery. After Dr Meyer performs this surgery, we can’t just let you walk out of the hospital; you’ll stay here, then when you’ll go home, you’ll still need someone by your side 24/7 for at least a week. And afterwards… someone will have to help you, to prepare your meals and to basically make sure you’re not jeopardizing your surgeon’s work.”

“This is ridiculous,” the Elder Brother protested, sitting up. “I can-”

“I’ll do it,” Sandor cut him off, boring into the cardiologist’s eyes. “I’ll try to figure out something before he leaves the hospital and I’ll watch over him.”

The cardiologist nodded approvingly, but the Elder Brother would have none of it. “What about your job, Sandor? How are you going to manage the gym-”

“I’ll let you two discuss about it,” the cardiologist said, stroking his beard and walking to the door.

“I ruined my relationship with Sansa, I won’t risk to loose you,” Sandor insisted, once the cardiologist had left. “I always wondered how I would repay you for saving my life and… for being there for me when I arrived in Quiet Isle. Now I’ve found a way. I won’t change my mind.”

Looking down at his lap, the Elder Brother scratched his wrist just above the plastic pipe of the drip. His weary eyes drifted slowly to Sandor.

“It’s settled,” Sandor said reassuringly. As he held the Elder Brother’s gaze, he sensed it wouldn’t be so easy to explain Barristan Selmy he didn’t need a couple of hours out of the gym this time, but _days_ to take care of his friend; for weeks, Sandor would have to slow down his activity and the only option left for Barristan Selmy would be to ask someone else’s help to close the gym at night. He wasn’t exactly well-off so he could imagine his banker’s long face when he’d learned Sandor didn’t make as much money as before. Despite all this and even if he doubted his ability to watch over someone with a heart condition, making this decision made him feel strangely exhilarated: he knew it was probably the first step to get his life back on track.

* * *

  _January 23th_

_I wish I could do something for you._ That was what the Elder Brother kept telling Sandor the day he left the hospital and moved back to his house. Taking care of someone helped Sandor to keep his interrogations about Sansa at bay. He had met her several times in the Elder Brother’s hospital room in the past few days, then at the doctor’s house, as she had volunteered to do the grocery shopping for her ex boss; her anger had disappeared and given way to an embarrassed silence that echoed his. She didn’t address him, but sometimes he would catch her eyes lingering on him: that was enough to distract him when he fixed dinner for the Elder Brother and him or when he did laundry. As he laid on his bed in the guestroom, this blue gaze of hers kept him awake at night. _Like in the good old days._ Maybe there was something the Elder Brother could do for him after all.

It took him two days to admit he needed the Elder Brother’s help and one more to summon up the courage to ask him.

The Elder Brother was sitting in his bed, propped up against the pillows, frowning at the newspaper’s crosswords. Sandor stopped in the doorway and observed his friend for a few seconds until the doctor raised his eyes and smiled at him.

“I want Sansa back,” he said, a lump in his throat.

The Elder Brother folded the newspaper and put it aside. “I’d lie if I said it’s a surprise… She won’t let you come back to her easily. Not after the way you two broke up. The things she told me, the way she behaved… She was broken after you told her it was over, probably because your relationship meant so much for her. Did you see how angry she was when you came back from King’s Landing? That anger seems to disappear, day after day, and I might be wrong but I think she realized by now how miserable you felt after breaking up. But her trust…” He paused, beckoning Sandor to sit down next to his bed. “Winning back Sansa’s trust will not be easy.”

Sansa came every two days or so to visit the Elder Brother; she didn’t act as if Sandor’s presence was unbearable, but she didn’t talk to him either. Sandor stared at his shoes as if he had found something fascinating in their worn-out leather; the Elder Brother heaved a sigh. “You’re far from being stupid, so you know showing up with a bunch of roses is not what she expects.”

“Maybe she’d trust me again if she was sure I’ve changed,” Sandor chanced. “If I talk to someone.”

The Elder Brother opened his eyes wide. “And how are you going to prove to her you’ve changed? Are you considering seeing a shrink? You told me once you didn’t believe in shrinks and you’d never do that. In a more colorful language, if I remember correctly.”

“I still don’t trust shrinks. I trust you.” Surprised, the doctor exhaled deeply and rubbed his veined nose. “Since you came back home, you keep saying you’d like to do something for me,” Sandor went on. “There’s nothing else I need more right now: someone I trust, who will help me understand why I did what I did and what to do to stop being an asshole. Someone who kicks my arse if need be.”

A silence fell on the room as the Elder Brother scratched his bald head. Sandor’s chest constricted as he realized he was asking his friend to do him a huge favor even though said friend had had a lot on his plate; after he had narrowly escaped death, the Elder Brother could very well focus on his recovery and therefore decline to help him: it would make sense. He could also refuse because he didn’t want to interfere between two persons he considered his friends. In this case, if the Elder Brother didn’t step forward, Sandor ignored the fact that he’d didn't have the strength to find another person to talk to.

“First lesson,” the Elder Brother said, thus putting an end to the suspense, “stop calling yourself an asshole. You did what you did because you were hurt. If someone dares to call you a coward, well… Screw them.”

Foul language sounded strange in the Elder Brother’s mouth, making him scoff out of surprise. “So will you help me?” Sandor asked.

His friend didn’t answer at first and gave him a long look. On his square face lit by dark, deep-set eyes, amusement gave way to understanding. A smile playing about his lips, the Elder Brother said: “You know I will.”

Thus began the biggest change in Sandor’s life since he had started dating Sansa.

* * *

The Elder Brother resumed what he had done years ago, during Sandor’s recovery, and never really carried out; if Sandor had given up alcohol abuse and violence thanks to the doctor’s help, the Elder Brother had failed to relieve him from his insecurities. After a week spent at the Elder Brother’s house, Sandor went back to the gym but he managed to have lunch and dinner with his old friend. Every day, whether it was before or after his day at the gym, the Elder Brother would tell Sandor to grab a chair and the conversation started. At the beginning, the Elder Brother did most of the talking; there were days when Sandor lost his temper and others when confessions were so painful he cried out of anger or out of sadness; sometimes there were long silences none of them tried to interrupt. The topics were almost always the same: his relationships with his brother or his parents, his sister’s death, the Lannisters’ influence and the life he had had as a teenager, then as a young adult.

Sansa kept visiting the Elder Brother and after some time, Sandor started wondering if she only came to her ex boss’ place when he was there too. All trace of anger had disappeared in her behavior and only awkwardness remained every time they breathed the same air.

It took her several weeks to speak to him again and when it happened, at the beginning of spring, Sandor knew instinctively he would toss and turn in his bed all night, replaying their conversation in his head, over and over.

“So… how do you manage to work at the gym and spend time here with the Elder Brother?” she asked. Their host had disappeared into his library, looking for a book he wanted Sansa to read.

In the hallway where he waited with Sansa, Sandor swallowed hard. Words were caught in his throat; as only two feet separated them, she couldn’t miss his uneasiness. “You know...” he stammered after a while, gazing at her loose braid, “... planning, anticipating. Barristan Selmy has been very understanding and Podrick helped me a lot.”

“You look tired. Are you sure you’re OK?”

Never had he thought she’d express some concern about him again; her remark caught him off guard because asking if he was alright was one of the things she often did when they were together. The truth was he looked like shit. _Not enough exercise, not enough sleep,_ he enumerated for himself. Knowing he wasn’t in great shape and probably needed a shower didn’t help regaining his composure. He shrugged. _What the hell is the Elder Brother doing?_ He started suspecting his friend had left them alone on purpose. “What about you, Sansa?”

Her blue eyes darted away from him and she bit her lip. “There are highs and lows.” In the dim light of the hallway, he couldn’t get his eyes off her. When she glanced at him again, she pleaded: “Stop looking at me this way. Please.”

“I’m sorry. For this... and for the rest.”

As he uttered these words, he told himself his excuses were so pathetic she might slap him in the face for reminding her of their break-up; Sansa’s answer nevertheless blew his mind.

“I know,” she whispered, briefly holding his gaze. As timid as their eye contact was, Sandor knew this look would haunt him. She bit her lip again, let her eyes fall to the floor, folded her arms in a self-protective gesture and even though the setting had changed and so many things had changed between them since that time, he felt like he had when they had run into each other in the elevator of Quiet Isle General Hospital. Tension, hope, nothing of this was new. _And my hands are clammy,_ he thought, _as if I was a fucking teenager._ It was happening again.

The Elder Brother finally came back, handed Sansa the book he insisted on giving her. The doctor’s small talk didn’t fool Sandor: since he had seen them standing a few feet apart and suddenly getting silent, a glint shone in his eyes. _Is it a fucking smile on his lips?_

He felt his shoulders sag when Sansa walked to her car and waved them goodbye, promising she would come back soon and maybe a sigh escaped his lips before the Elder Brother’s voice raised him from his thoughts: “So… what now?”

Sandor shrugged. “I’d better put the stuff Sansa brought in the fridge,” he offered.

The Elder Brother suppressed a smile. “Don’t play dumb with me. You know I’m not talking about the lasagna she brought.”

“What are we talking about, then?”

“You know better than that.”

Sandor turned slightly and rested his head against the door frame so that his friend couldn’t see his face anymore. “I doubt she wants to see me.”

“Well, I called her yesterday, when you were at the gym,” the Elder Brother informed him. “Said I wanted to know what was going on in orthopedics now that Narbert is in charge… I told her you’re trying to get your life back on track and doing your best to change-”

_Why did he tell her?_ Anger came back briefly, making his fist banging against the wall. “It wasn’t your decision to make,” he growled.

“On the contrary, I had to. If my pig-headed friend doesn't want to tell her, I have to let her know what’s happening. Besides, it wasn't such a big secret: she told me she knew there was something different about you."

The Elder Brother's words left him speechless ; he leaned harder against the doorframe as if the contact of the wood against his forehead was necessary to process what he had heard. _She knows it's not me helping the Elder Brother but him helping me. So, what now?_

“Is she dating someone?” he asked the Elder Brother, barely above a whisper. The question burned his lips.

“Even if she is, that’s none of your business… No, I don’t think she is.” His forehead still leaning against the doorframe, he closed his eyes for a second and heard the Elder Brother retreating inside his house, walking in the kitchen and heaving a contented sigh - probably while smelling the lasagna Sansa had prepared.

* * *

_March 25th_

Sandor didn't see her for a couple of days after their conversation at the Elder Brother's place and it gave him plenty of time to ponder on what he would tell her the next time and what she had in mind. _We need to talk._

He considered calling her but convinced himself he wouldn’t be able to find the right words if she didn’t pick the phone and he had to leave her a message. Instead of making a fool of himself by leaving some incoherent monologue on her voicemail, he chose to wait until she’d visit the Elder Brother again. His friend had finally decided to retire after decades spent in Quiet Isle General Hospital. Sandor had first been  delighted by the news: had he chosen to go back to work, the Elder Brother would have been unable to spare himself. Then, Sandor had realized Sansa would visit her ex boss as soon as someone told her the Elder Brother was retiring.

The way he jumped when the doorbell rang that night made the Elder Brother laugh. “Go open that door, will you?” the older man said, still chuckling. They were doing the dishes after having dinner and Sandor had to wipe his wet hands on his jeans before opening the door.

Sansa was standing on the doorstep, looking at the river below the garden so he first saw her profile before she turned to him quickly and gave a hint of a smile. She looked a bit intimidated and clutched a brown bag ready to burst.

“Come on in,” Sandor said after taking the brown bag from her hands. The mere contact of her hands made him shiver and he wondered for a second if she shivered too when she felt his hands on her, if it brought back memories of the months they had spent together. Her expression was unreadable as she moved past him and headed to the kitchen where the Elder Brother greeted her. They made small talk, Sansa listing all the things she had brought while Sandor put the vegetables, the dairy products and the meat away.

“Smells good,” she finally commented, playing nervously with the zip of her coat.

“Sandor prepared some pork chops,” the Elder Brother answered. “Did you have dinner already?” She shook her head. “There are plenty of leftovers. Try some.”

Sansa kept her eyes downcast for a heartbeat, thus showing her hesitation, then she glanced at Sandor before shrugging off her coat. She was wearing a white, fluffy sweater he had bought for her a few months ago, on one of the rare occasions when Sansa had convinced him to go to the mall with her. _Is it a fucking coincidence?_ The sweater was long - Sansa said ‘oversized’ - and after leaving the store that afternoon, he had whispered she should wear this sweater and nothing else when she was home, that he’d like to see her in only her sweater when he came back from the gym. Sansa had laughed at that and the next evening he had found her sitting cross-legged on his couch, only wearing her brand-new sweater as she waited for him. He had taken her on the spot, too eager to bury himself inside her to go to the bedroom.

And there she was, wearing a sweater he associated with intimacy and with the good moments of their relationship, when he was able to see past his commitment issues - or just to ignore them.

As the Elder Brother beckoned Sansa to take a seat, Sandor walked to the fridge, took the pork chops and mashed potatoes and microwaved them for her. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he kept his back to her until she broke the silence: “Are you OK, Sandor?”

The unexpected, almost tender way she said his name made him close his eyes for a second because of all the promises he wanted to hear in those two syllables. _Don’t make a fool of yourself,_ he mused, pulling himself together. When he turned around, the Elder Brother had disappeared and Sansa stared at him with a mix of concern and curiosity. “Where’s the Elder Brother?” he inquired.

“He just left. So… How are you doing?”

The beeps coming from the microwave informed him Sansa’s food was ready. He couldn’t help but feeling trapped by his friend; he decided to bury the thought away. “I’m good. What have you been up to?” he asked, taking the plate out of the microwave and placing it in front of Sansa. She got up to find some cutlery and shyly stepped back not to bump into him when going back to her seat. _We’re still uncomfortable with each other._

Sandor pulled out a chair and straddled it to hide his uneasiness. He was pretty sure he couldn’t fool her. _Oh well._

“Lots of work,” she answered, seemingly focusing on her food and avoiding his gaze. “Doctor Narbert partly reorganized the orthopedics…”

“How is your family?”

“They’re doing good. Rickon…” The mere evocation of her younger brother brought a smile on her lips. “Rickon still gives a hard time to my great-uncle. At some point, I almost decided to go back North and help Uncle Brynden… Maybe I wanted to go back North to leave all this behind me...” She stopped short from saying more. An embarrassed silence and a forkful of mashed potatoes in the air: that was all he needed to remember how he had hurt her.

“But you stayed,” he rasped.

She nodded. “Part of me wanted to run away, because I don’t know any better, I guess,” she sneered. “Oddly enough, I couldn’t.” Her blue eyes flicked between her plate and Sandor’s face.

_What does she expect me to do? Apologize more? Take her hand? Stay still and listen to her?_ He realized he would never be sure about what she expected of him; maybe he just had to live with that uncertainty and try to do what felt right. Both his hands rested on the back of the kitchen chair; he extended one toward Sansa who stared at his long fingers as if it was the first time she saw them. She let him wrap his hand around one of hers and bored into his eyes before removing her hand.

“I’m not ready,” she mouthed. A painful look on her face, she added: “I wish it was that simple but it’s not. I’m terrified.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Sandor observed her pushing her meat around her plate with her fork; more than once he told himself he should just bolt out of the kitchen to put an end to this situation but every time he was about to run away he felt like he was glued to his seat, magnetized by her presence, her scent.

Sansa cleared her throat. “The Elder Brother told me you were… talking to him. How- how is it going?” Hesitation laced each syllable.

“We’re making progress,” he answered after a while. “I wish it wasn’t taking so fucking long though…” Another hush, shorter this time; only the erratic beats of his heart gave rhythm to the silence. “I’ll never be able to make up for what I did to you. You- you suffered because of me and I don’t know if you’ll forgive me someday… Don’t know yet if I will forgive myself for this.”

“I was mad at you,” she confessed. “I would have hurt you if I could. At least that’s what I told myself before realizing I couldn’t hate you. Then... I became mad at me, for being so… weak.”

_What does it mean, she couldn’t hate me?_ He sighed: “You’re not weak.”

The little bird looked at him intently for a while, before saying: “I bet you wonder if I forgave you or not. It’s like what you’re doing with the help of the Elder Brother. It takes time.” She ate some more, daintily.

Observing her, Sandor frowned deeply; he wasn’t sure what Sansa was getting at and that notion drove him mad. He ran his hand down his face and asked suddenly: “What does it fucking mean? If you’re trying to say you don’t want me in your life anymore without hurting me, quit beating around the bush and say it, girl.”

Sandor had talked so fast he was almost out of breath; he mentally cursed his inability to say important things without yelling. Still sitting across him, Sansa swallowed hard. The muscles of her jaw looked tense for a second before she exhaled deeply. A tiny smile lit her face. “Will you always call me ‘girl’?” Her eyes shone. “I’m trying to say the contrary, Sandor. It took me a long time to be sure about it but I want you in my life. I never stopped wanting you in my life. I need you... but I also need time.”

They stared at each other wordlessly again, the tension driving Sandor mad. “Meaning?” he finally chanced.

“Meaning… I think we should meet in a different place, perhaps have a drink somewhere and talk. There are so many things we need to discuss.”

“Why not at my place? You know the address-”

A silent but firm shake of the head cut him off. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. For now, at least. Anyway, I’m not ready.”

_If she’s not ready, I’ll wait then. What else can I do?_ Her reluctance to meet him at his place - or at hers - wasn’t exactly a surprise. _Too many memories._ “You’ll set the pace, then,” he said, putting his elbows on the table.

Sansa nodded briefly. Her piercing blue eyes shone as she asked him: “What about the _Crossroads_ , tomorrow night?”

* * *

 Another night at the _Crossroads_ , a different atmosphere… Yet he also had something to confess the first time he had taken her there and he had to apologize. _It’s not so different after all,_ he mused.

It was only the first step, the first date of a long series before he could tell he had won back her trust; of that, he was sure. He had to wait until she was comfortable enough in his presence; he needed to let her come to him. Faithful to his promise, he let her set the pace and ask the questions. He answered as honestly as he could, pausing sometimes to find his words while she looked at him over interlaced fingers. Even if he died to take her hand, he restrained himself, convinced she would not agree. Instead, he drank in the sight of her. Her subtle makeup made her eyes look brighter; she kept playing with the pendant of her necklace. After some time he realized the tension he had noticed in her shoulders when she had arrived had disappeared; she was more relaxed and when Sandor said he’d better leave because it was late, a sigh escaped her lips. _She doesn’t want me to go so soon._

“What are you doing, let’s say, on Friday night? I feel like we still need to discuss,” she said, taking her purse while he left a couple of notes on the table.

“Where do you want to meet?” Once again, he wanted her to choose in the hopes she’d feel safer.

Sansa suggested to meet at the _Crossroads_ again, and that was what they did for the next weeks, going there twice a week. Not kissing, not even holding hands but talking over and over, or staring at each other silently until it was time to go back home. The situation was frustrating for him - sometimes he wondered if she was not as annoyed as he was - but never did he complain. Of course, it felt strange to let Sansa make all the decisions; it was like being helplessly tossed about on waves that were either almighty or calm, depending on the day. He was learning to trust her, unquestioningly. At some point, it reminded him of his troubled past, when the Lannisters employed him for their dirty work: the men he worked with had sometimes had Sandor’s life in their hands. One of their mistakes could cost Sandor his life. Sansa didn’t hold his life in her hands but his heart and somehow it was just as terrifying.  

_It’s a process,_ the Elder Brother said, when Sandor talked about it with him. _Not very different from what you experienced when you learned how to walk again after you were shot. It’s kind of amusing that you meet Sansa in this tavern, at the same spot you were injured. It says a lot about you._

When Sandor had rolled his eyes and asked him what he meant with his fucking metaphors, the Elder Brother had grinned. _It proves that you always go back to the places where important things happened to you and that you’re probably bound to meet again the people who played an important part in your life. Stay, maybe have a good run with them._

“Tell this to all those who push up the daisies, like Tywin Lannister or his grandson Joffrey,” he had countered, even if he knew exactly what his friend meant. _He thinks I belong with Sansa._

* * *

_June 12th_

The day Sansa had suggested to have dinner with him at her place - blushing deeply, like it was some indecent proposal - he had felt so happy his words had fled him. For two weeks now, they had been holding hands and just that had been a victory.

“Let’s get things straight,” she had added, very serious despite her crimson cheeks. “We’re going to have dinner at my place because I feel comfortable enough to invite you again and to be with you in my apartment, but we’re just going to eat and talk. Nothing else. I’m not ready yet and I don’t know when I will. I’m not even sure-”

“No need to explain, Sansa. It’s fine,” he had reassured her. “We’ll have dinner, we’ll talk, I’ll help you do the dishes and I’ll leave. Period.”

She had given him an embarrassed smile and he had asked himself afterward if it was relief or disappointment he had seen in her eyes. These recurrent questions about what she felt, what she thought, he had learned to live with. He had no other choice, if he wanted to grow old with the woman he loved and already lost twice, the first time when he had drunkenly offered to escape King’s Landing with her and the second when he had broken up with her. Maybe the urgency of the situation had forced him to change more drastically than he had ever done before, according to the Elder Brother.

Yet she wanted to have dinner with him at her place and he had been waiting for her invitation for so long it felt unreal; he needed to talk about it with the Elder Brother.

His friend felt better, thanks to a healthy diet and a quiet daily routine and decided to prepare his own retiring party. Sandor found the Elder Brother in his kitchen, behind his laptop; on the table, he saw a list of people - the ones the now retired doctor wanted to invite to his party.

“Did you know there are websites to help you plan your retiring party?” the Elder Brother asked, without a gaze at Sandor. He kept scrolling down, seemingly mesmerized.

“Sansa invited me.”

“I don’t want to sound indifferent, but she’s been inviting you twice a week for months now. It’s not what I would call the scoop of the century.”

Slightly disappointed by his friend’s lack of reaction, Sandor paused theatrically until the Elder Brother raised his eyes. “Except we’re having dinner at her place, this time,” he said all of a sudden, like one drops a bombshell.

The Elder Brother opened his eyes wide. “Damn. After all these months, it’s like riding a bicycle without training wheels.”

“At almost forty?” Sandor chuckled. “She made it clear; nothing’s gonna happen tomorrow night.”

The older man rubbed his big nose and stood up. “Remember, Sandor. No matter what happens, follow her lead. If you want her back, let her set the pace. She needs time. No reckless initiatives and I promise you’ll have a wonderful moment with her.”

He should have listened to his friend.

* * *

An implied consent existed between them since they had started meeting each other at the _Crossroads_ : she wore casual clothes and crew neck T-shirts, she forgot about plunging necklines and things labelled as sexy; as for him, he didn’t make any innuendos. Their unspoken agreement was apparently still topical that night, although the setting had changed; with her chino pants and white T-shirt, Sansa looked cute but not like she had a date. He nonetheless noticed her loose hair and the scent of her perfume.

Even if Sansa had made it clear that she invited him to eat and talk and nothing else, there was something different in the air. They were not in a public place, there was no one around and it changed the atmosphere. He could tell she was a bit nervous: her concern about the taste of the homemade mayonnaise and the cooking of the chicken pie was just an excuse. _She doesn’t want to recognize it’s strange to be here together after what happened between us._

Making her laugh then seeing her relax was a tiny victory. While eating dessert, the tension she had unsuccessfully tried to disguise into something else subsided. She smiled, she allowed her blue eyes to linger on him; was it longing he saw in them before he dared touch her hand and wrap his fingers around hers? _This is happening, again, you should seize the opportunity,_ a tiny voice said in his head before he remembered the Elder Brother’s advice: _let her set the pace._ Torn, he squeezed her hand. Should he preempt her next move by kissing her right now? That was dangerous, yet he lusted for his little bird, he had never stopped wanting her. Seeing Sansa for months without touching her had been a torture.

Afraid to ruin the moment albeit frustrated, Sandor helped Sansa clear the table and do the dishes. A very similar scene had taken place at his house, less than a year ago and they had ended in his bed. He remembered a brief lull in the conversation, Sansa singing an old and rather sad song and him kissing her passionately. _Not this time,_ he mused. The realization stirred something inside him and for second his grip on the china plate tightened uncontrollably. She’d made him wait, no, she’d made both of them wait because she needed to be sure before giving herself to him. _And that’s probably better this way._

With the discussion winding down, he allowed himself to steal a glance at her more often than not: feasting his eyes on her, observing her every move and remembering the softness of her skin underneath her clothes was all he could do for now. The clatter of the freshly washed silverware in the silverware drawer announced his impending departure; once the dishes done, he’d have no good reason to stay.

As he swept the now clean kitchen, his shoulders sagged. _It’s high time I leave,_ he tried to convince himself. _The longer I stay, the more complicated it will be-_

Sansa’s gentle touch on his arm raised him from his thoughts. _What are you doing, little bird? Do you want to drive me crazy?_ She was looking up at him, a tea towel in her hands.

“Thank you so much, Sandor. It’s kind of you to help me to clean all this.”

A modest shrug was the only answer he managed to give her; he was fascinated by the tenderness he read in her expression. _Don’t tempt me, love._ They left the kitchen, Sansa leading the way, Sandor dragging his feet behind her. Still intoxicated by her presence but already preparing himself for the sensation of void he’d experience as soon as he would get inside his truck, he felt his heart beat wildly.  

“So…” Sansa began, “I hope you enjoyed this dinner because I really liked having you here. Again... Are you free on Tuesday night?”

His fingers curled suddenly. If her cheerful tone was meant to appease the disappointment she had certainly seen in his gaze, she was bound to fail. _I’m not sure I can take it any longer,_ he thought. _How many dinners like this one before a proper kiss? Before a night in the same bed? I fucking waited, I let you set the pace but now I can’t take it anymore…_

Sansa had probably noticed his turmoil, for she slightly frowned. On an impulse, he crossed the two feet separating them, pulled her close and ducked his head to kiss her. Her scent, the softness of her lips, her warmth… it was like this stupid break-up had never existed, as if the uncertainty and awkwardness of these past months had been a bad dream.

Until he realized she wasn’t answering his kiss and her hands were pushing against his chest.

He pulled away, out of breath, cursing his impulsiveness. Humiliated. _I ruined it all. The Elder Brother told me to let her set the pace and I didn’t listen._ “I’m sorry,” he rasped, looking down. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

When he dared raise his eyes, Sansa hugged herself. _I ruined it all: she’ll never forgive me._ She stared at him, speechless, her eyes widened by surprise. _By shock?_ Sandor asked himself. _By disgust?_

_Explain yourself. Tell her what you’re feeling._ If there was something he had learned during these past months, it was the certainty Sansa hated when he withdrew into himself. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” he mumbled. “I wanted to kiss you so badly. Now I can see how stupid it was. Forgive me, Sansa. Please. I should leave now.” Words came tumbling out; he already stepped back to exit her apartment and put an end to this awkward situation. He had opened the entrance door and already felt the cool breeze of June on his reddened face when he heard a strangled sound escaping Sansa’s lips.

“Stay.”

He turned to her, knitting his eyebrows. Sansa’s lips were red - because of his kiss - and trembling as if she was about to cry. Her whole body was shaking and he could tell she had gathered her courage to utter this word.

She said it again, louder this time. “Stay.” The urgency in her voice made Sandor’s heart skip a beat. As he didn’t move, she took a step forward.

* * *

He woke up at six because he always did but during the short moment when he hesitated between slumber and wakefulness, he felt like something wasn’t quite right. _The sun should be rising by now… Why can’t I feel its rays on my face?_ Then he remembered: the dinner at Sansa’s place, the kiss he had stolen from her, the awkwardness and finally the way she had thrown herself in his arms.

In the end he had let her set the pace. In the end he had followed her lead, when she had taken his hand and walked to her bedroom. Unlike his, Sansa’s bedroom had curtains; that was why the morning sun had not woken him up.

A glance at the alarm confirmed it was 6 AM - 6:02, precisely. His little bird stirred in her sleep and got closer to him; her calm breathing lulled Sandor and he decided that for once, he deserved to sleep in.

* * *

“I know I’ll probably have to propose myself if I want to get married,” Sansa said, visibly amused by the idea.  “If I want to get married someday, that is.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face.

When he had finally woken up, the sun was high in the sky and a slender silhouette stood out against the French window. Sansa only wore a blue spaghetti strap top and matching panties. Eyes widening in disbelief, he had kept watching her for long seconds before clearing his throat to get her attention. She had turned around, smiled and beckoned him to join her by the window. As she had swiveled on her heels again and resumed watching the garden behind her condo, he had put his boxers on and walked to the window, stopping just behind her. The kisses he had planted on her shoulders and neck had made her laugh.

“Do you have regrets?” he had asked.

“Not at all. Do you?”

He had wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close until a satisfied moan had escaped her lips. “You know I don’t,” he had rasped against her ear, making her shiver.

That was when she had wriggled out of his arms with a chuckle and sashayed to the corner where her guitar case stood.

“I know I’ll probably have to propose myself if I want to get married,” Sansa said, a smile on her lips. “If I want to get married someday, that is. You know what? I’m getting used to the idea. I kinda like it. Arya would like it too.”

Mentioning her sister didn’t erase the smile on her lips. _Maybe Arya will come back one day, maybe she won’t, but Sansa feels more serene about it,_ he thought. As the young woman opened the guitar case and retrieved the guitar from it, Sandor stepped back and sat down on the bed; the box springs feebly protested under his weight.

“It’s been so long since I last played,” Sansa whispered, caressing the guitar. She joined Sandor on the bed, sitting with one foot tucked under the other leg.

The sight of her holding her guitar, reminded him of the day she had moved into this apartment, when he had discovered the guitar case among her luggage; it also brought back memories of their time together, when the morning of their days-off were filled with Sansa’s music. “You used to play whenever you could,” he told her, a quizzical look on his face.

“Some things don’t make much sense when you can’t share them with the ones you love, Sandor.” She paused, briefly focusing on her guitar, before adding: “For a while, music didn’t make much sense to me. Now it does, I guess.”

She started playing, looking down at her hands, at first, then glancing at him. She shot him a smile, still playing a tune he knew he had heard before yet couldn’t identify until she started singing:

_“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel_

_You were famous, your heart was a legend._

_You told me again you preferred handsome men_

_But for me you would make an exception.”_

She stopped, sat up straight and bored into his eyes. This song, she had sung it before their first kiss; if he was honest these last words had spurred him to take her in his arms and to kiss her. Oddly enough, he felt a lump in his throat.

“It’s a sad song,” he stated. “Beautiful but way too sad for a day like today.”

She nodded then rested the guitar on her lap, a playful smile on her lips. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“First of,” he said, “after what happened last night, I should be the one singing for you, not the other way around. If my voice wasn’t croaky as fuck, I mean.”

Sansa chuckled. “And what would you sing to me?” Her tone was still playful, but her eyes sparkled as if she challenged him; she sat up straight, letting his eyes wander on the curve of her breasts, waiting for his answer.

“Told you I can’t sing, but I remember the lyrics.” He slightly leaned forward. “Since you like Leonard Cohen’s songs...” he trailed off, before reciting:

_“If you want a father for your child,_

_Or only want to walk with me a while_

_Across the sand_

_I'm your man”_

Some of his insecurities would never disappear, he had learned this lesson too, thanks to the Elder Brother’s help. There would be highs and lows, there would be happy moments and sad ones; he knew all this and Sansa knew it too. As he put aside the guitar, pulled her close and started kissing her, three words played over and over in his head. It wasn’t a declaration of love, not the conventional one, nor some romantic promise - romantic promises were bullshit - but a certainty he was ready to base the rest of his life upon. He deepened the kiss, until she was out of breath, and when she half-broke their kiss to straddle him, he still mentally repeated these three words: _I’m her man._

Now he knew who he was. _I’m her man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this, commenting and being so open-minded about this story, even when it surprised you. I know I’m not good at rubbing readers up the right way so I’m amazed by the mature reactions to this fic. I was also touched by the support some of you showed me on tumblr: thank you so much for encouraging authors.
> 
> Thanks a million to Underthenorthernlights, aka the-beta-who-wakes-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-to-check-something-I-wrote (I swear it’s true). Without your help and your support, my dear, my fics would only exist in my mind. Thanks to my dear S. for his support.
> 
> In case some of you were wondering, the song Sandor sings at the end of this chapter is ‘I’m Your Man’, by Leonard Cohen. A conversation with ADKSansan on tumblr, a long time ago, gave me the idea to end up this fic with his wonderful song.


End file.
